


For Always, For Evermore

by elucifexeia



Category: Code: Realize ~Guardian of Rebirth~
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Oneshot collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 23,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elucifexeia/pseuds/elucifexeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles/oneshots focused on SanCardia from my Saint-Germain roleplay blog.<br/>Various time placements from common route to post-game (though mostly the latter).<br/>Potential spoilers for the fandisk ~Future Blessings~ from Chapter 26 onward.<br/>Potential spoilers the second fandisk ~Silver-white Miracles~ from Chapter 33 onward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "What are you afraid of?"

“What I am… _afraid_ of?” he parrots her words for himself, surely she knows the answer to this already. No, perhaps like himself she doesn’t think so far into the future that way–-she’s a far too positive person, now that she has a life to live at his side, and that is the way it should be he thinks. If only he can worry about the future, then that is okay. But he won’t lie to her: And maybe sharing the things he _is_  afraid of, despite his unrivaled experience in life, would be good for him. After all, the last time he did was… some time ago.

He finally allows his eyes to meet her curious gaze; he battles with the words to use, and finally settles upon lifting one of his hands to caress her cheek–unlike last time, his gloves are specially--made and don’t melt. Though he would die to feel that warmth on his hand directly again–but he wouldn’t dare displease her in taking part in such a reckless act. He may still have regeneration, but he doubts it would work to the same extent as it once did with his immortality combined.

“…I am afraid.” he states, fingers stroking her cheek, “afraid that if I don’t find–if _we_  don’t find–the information we need, you will be taken from me.” he lifts his hand from her face just enough to run his fingers through her hair–his eyes following their movement. “I am afraid…” he repeats, “afraid that my life might run out before yours, and I may end up leaving you alone as a result.” he pulls his hand away just enough to curl his fingers into a fist. “But, despite that, I won’t give up. No matter what. Because,” he meets her gaze again and places a quick kiss upon the cheek his hand had just caressed (ignoring the subsequent sting), “because even now I am the only one who can do this. And we… we will always be together, isn’t that right, Cardia-san?”


	2. "Don't leave."

He’s about to exit the room; believing Cardia to finally be asleep, if the steady rise and fall of her chest had been any indication. He’s not sure, even now, if it had been a farce or his movement (or perhaps sudden lack of presence) had woken her. But her voice is quiet and sleepy as she calls out; two words that both grip at his heart and amuse him enough that he has to bring a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle a gentle chuckle. 

“Oh? I thought you were sleeping.” he comments, taking the same slow and even paces back to her bedside; the chair he had been sat in still warm, as he once again takes a seat in it. She’s caught a cold–he’d been informed the chair was the closest he was allowed to get because she might make _him_  sick too. It was endearing; the way she wanted him close, but couldn’t stand the thought of making him suffer (not that a  _cold_  was really going to be an issue), so much so that he simply couldn’t refute the terms this time. It was her first time ever _having_  one; it probably felt far worse for her, not knowing what to expect.

It’s late though, _incredibly so_ , but he supposes she’s too far out of it to notice anything more than the lack of himself beside her bed. “Is there something you’d like, Cardia-san?” he asks softly, willing to get her almost anything regardless of the hour. He’d not long changed the towel on her forehead, though, so that should be all right. The response he receives is a gentle shake of the head at first, but then she pauses and cautiously looks at him out of the corner of her eye. His head is tilted curiously, “… Cardia-san?” he calls out softly, trying to coax whatever it is she wants to say from her. 

For a moment, she pulls the blankets covering her right up to her chin. _Is she cold_ , he wonders, and thinks to retrieve another from the cupboard across the room, but no sooner than when that thought distracted him, did he feel the gentle tug at his sleeve. Without hesitation, his eyes glance downward, and suss out what it is she’s trying to do. His long sleeves were all that remained in her reach, but the target was something else entirely. “You could have simply said that’s what you wished for, Cardia-san.” he comments lightheartedly, a smile on his face as he once more pushes himself off of the chair in favour of kneeling at the bedside. 

He takes the hand now waiting, gently into his own. He places his lips ever so softly to the back of her hand before it is covered by the joining of his other hand. “I’ll stay right here.” he assures, “so please, get some rest… _Cardia_.”


	3. "Be honest."

“Honesty…” It wasn’t that he had ever lied to her, but he supposes it isn’t hard for _her_  of all people to catch onto the fact there’s _more_. But he fears the truth will frighten her; new things to speak of that she can do nothing but _think_  about, until they can finally free her from the horolugium’s insipid poison. But his avoidance so far hasn’t gone unnoticed, and if he tries to pass this off again and again… it could slowly damage their trust, couldn’t it? Cardia is far too dear to him for either outcome, and so he contemplates for a moment, looking the girl over seriously.

And he goes to speak, but in his mother-tongue; a language she knows too little of to know what he’s saying, but there can be no lie to his words, and he looks at her with all sincerity as a hand delicately places itself on her face. “Je veux faire tant de choses, Cardia.” his hand shifts so that two of his fingers may place themselves upon her lips gently. “Je tiens à vous tenir dans mes bras et murmurer des choses à vous que vous ne devriez jamais répéter.” a third finger joins them and he brushes them down her chin to lift it (something he’s done many times before to kiss her). “Je veux vous toucher là où aucun autre sera jamais être autorisé.” And he leans in, but he stops short of her lips and instead speaks in a whisper beside her ear, breath ghosting it and rustling her hair. “Je tiens à vous faire sentir si bon que vous oublierez tout, mais moi. Je veux entendre que vous appelez mon nom dans la voix la plus douce de tous.” 

He pulls away entirely, only to place both of his hands on her cheeks and stare directly into her eyes. These words he’s said many times in the language foreign to him, for her to understand, but this time he is unable to drop the french he’s speaking as he continues. “Je t'aime, Cardia.” he widens his soft smile, just for her–an action that feels so very natural to him now. “Je t'aime tellement ça me tue de garder attente. Mais je vais. Pour toi. Alors s'il vous plaît ne pas avoir peur.” 

He chuckles gently as he releases her, almost half expecting a complaint on how unfair he was. However, he speaks first with an apologetic smile. “One day, I’ll speak those words so that you can understand them. But for now… let that be enough. I’m glad I could tell you… my honest feelings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:  
> "I want to do so many things, Cardia."  
> "I want to hold you in my arms and whisper things to you that you should never repeat."  
> "I want to touch you where no other will ever be allowed."  
> "I want to make you feel so good that you'll forget everything but me. I want to hear you call my name in the sweetest voice of all."  
> "I love you, Cardia."  
> "I love you so much it kills me to keep waiting. But I will. For you. So please do not be afraid."


	4. "Don't stop."

Circles and strokes, both in lazy and gentle movements as he lies there with her, arms lax around her waist. It takes him a short while to realise what it is he’s been doing all this time; and the moment he does, his hands pull away quickly rising off of her. He’s mere _seconds_  from uttering an apology to the woman laid atop of him when Cardia’s voice is there to halt him, accompanied by a gaze of earnest.

He looks at her, surprised, a level of uncertainty welling up inside of him. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing his gloves, but this might be the first time she’s _allowed_  him to touch her skin directly for a rather extended period of time (embraces left out of this equation). “…Are you… sure?” he asks, carefully studying her face for even the slightest hint of denial. A small ‘it’s okay, it feels nice’ the explanation he’s provided with that radiant smile of hers. 

He’s forbidden from kissing her (though that doesn’t usually stop him sneaking in a few here and there, more often than not), so despite her face being so close to his–it’s all he can do to look at her as she drops her head back to his chest. She likes listening, he supposes; unlike the thrum of the horologium what keeps her alive, inside of him beats a regular human heart. He’s quite sure that it may have just picked up the pace somewhat, but she doesn’t appear to be fazed.

More like… she’s probably a little amused. It’s quite unlike him to fluster in any sense of the word, after all. 

But, she has given him explicit permission, and he’s not about to let it go to waste. His hands slip back up, under the hem of her shirt that had come loose, to the small of her back. He continues as he was; tracing small lines and circles there–alternating as he pleases, when he pleases–with a few of his fingers. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before blue is revealed to the ceiling as his head falls back to the soft pillows–sinking into the feathers. “Ah…” his voice is no more than a low murmur now, “vous allez être la mort de moi, un jour… Cardia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation:   
> "you'll be the death of me one day... Cardia."


	5. "We shouldn't..."

He knows she doesn’t mean harm, he _knows_ , but sometimes the forced distance is too much. He wants to playfully ignore her protests as always; it’s simple, and something even she’s surely come to accept. But he shouldn’t ignore her wishes, not all the time. But not once has there been a lack of protest; feeble as it may have been, there had never been a time where her reluctance didn’t show–at least, when it came to physical contact. He understands, he _does_ , but he can’t grasp why there’s still so much an issue. Or maybe he does, but he just wants to deny it. Perhaps her caution is the better founded feeling from the two of them: If he took things too far, even his regeneration might not save him. But, then, does she not have faith that he won’t do something reckless? 

Time and again they’ve held hands, time and again he’s proven to her that he can _control_  what he really wants to do in order to save her the concern for his well--being; his kisses are always fleeting and gentle, his touches never between bared skin. Because he knows Cardia would blame herself more than him if something were to harm him–if _she_  were to harm him. For a moment he’s almost expressionless, trying to work out how to respond. Maybe this time, he’d be better off listening. 

For some reason, this time the hesitation and reluctance strikes a little harder than usual. How long as it been now, anyway? Up until this moment he’s always been aware of how many months, days, _weeks_ , they’ve been together since that day… but it’s all out of mind. Whatever it was, it feels shorter; like the time used to get closer has been swallowed up by his doubts, ones that he knows he shouldn’t have. He loves Cardia so dearly he doesn’t wish to let her go, and although she’s cautious at times she makes it apparent she feels the same way–so _why_? It was all contradictory.

Where he’d edged his face closer moments–or maybe minutes–ago, he pulled away and stood upright; where his hand had settled itself upon her cheek, it retracted and he let it fall from the air with less grace than the majority of his movements often contain. He’s silent as he looks at her, expression somewhat forlorn–masking it would be a lost cause. _He’s_  a lost cause.

“Don’t you trust me?” the words slip so quietly from his mouth he doesn’t even realise he’s spoken them aloud until it’s far too late. But perhaps the look on his face had said it all anyway; he shakes his head, quickly brings his hand back up to push a finger to her lips. “Don’t answer that.” he says firmly, but still with a certain melancholy. “It was an unreasonable thing to ask, I apologise.” he _forces_  a smile; faking it had been second nature to him for so long, he wonders why it’s so hard right now. “Let’s call it a night, shall we?” he finally pulls his finger from her lips and turns on his heels, prepared to leave as he adjusts the glove on his hand. “Goodnight, Cardia-san. …And, sweet dreams.”


	6. comforting after a nightmare

His feet couldn’t have moved him faster if he’d tried, and he thanks God as he moves through the hallway that he had chosen not to sleep in favour of finishing some reading on alchemy--everything he could learn _every_  little detail insignificant or not could hold the key to saving Cardia from a cruel fate. It had been her cry--or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a scream--of his name that had him uncharacteristically _drop_  the book to the floor and leave it there entirely discarded as he dashed to her room. Manners aside; fears instead of _Omnibus_ , or the horologium itself posing a sudden threat to her life, taking root, he swings open her door without a second thought. 

Cardia was crying--her _tears_  just wouldn’t stop. Ambushed by sobs and sharp inhales of breath her words are caught in her throat, but she wasn’t awake. Whatever it was she was seeing, it was a sight only for her--a _nightmare_ \--a _hell_  for her to suffer within the realm of dreams. “Cardia-san,” he calls her name gently, because he doesn’t want to startle her, and moves with haste to her bedside. Her form is trembling and it takes all he has not to simply scoop her into his arms there and then. 

However he does sit himself on the edge of the bed, “Cardia-san...” he repeats her name, placing a hand on the sheets covering her, “ _Cardia!_ ” He has to reel back slightly as the loudest call of her name forces her to bolt upright; her tears come to a sudden halt, and she finally _breathes_ , but it’s laboured and she’s still shaking, so Saint takes a hand of hers into his own and brings it to his lips. “It’s all right,” he says softly against them, “I’m here.” Now that she’s conscious of his presence she seems torn--reluctant to speak. Saint can probably guess why; he’s curious what _demons_  have upset her, but he knows it rude to pry. 

He offers her the best smile he can, and shuffles closer to her on the bed, so that now he really can simply hold her in his arms. His embrace is tight, secure, and _safe_. In hindsight perhaps it’s maybe a little too tight, but his worries overpower rational thinking--his _relief_  a stronger feeling than any. She’s not in danger, and that is alone enough for him. His head rests upon her shoulder, his arms around her arms and waist squeeze so tightly she has to tell him she can’t breathe; he feels bad, he does, but although his grip loosens at the words, he can’t bring himself to let her go. Not even to feel her return the embrace.

“I’ll stay here.” he announces, quietly. “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep again. So please don’t worry.” She can’t greet their friends tomorrow without sleep; they’ll notice, and it’ll concern them--she knows this too, and nods a few times. Her murmured, soft, ‘thank you’ is a sign he should let go, and so he does (reluctantly). He pulls away and places a hand to her cheek; no words are exchanged, but he looks in her eyes with the smile of assurance he can finally muster. He leans in, plants a gentle kiss atop the hair on her forehead so that she can’t raise a complaint and carefully pushes himself off of the bed. 

As promised, he doesn’t leave; he takes the chair from the desk in the room and places it against the wall beside her bed. “Good night, Cardia-san,” he says, reaching over to brush a few strands of hair from her face as she lays down. She mumbles the same in response as she closes her eyes, following a gentle sigh--finally relaxing again. Saint watches her silently, and thinks about the book he’d discarded. Now, more than ever, he vows to find the answer to all of her worries--ones he doesn’t doubt are the very source of nightmares and inner demons. He’ll make her happy, no matter what it costs.

“I’ll pray that you have sweet dreams.”


	7. wiping away tears

It had happened. Somehow. No, somehow was far too vague; he had a number of people to thank wholeheartedly–but in particular, it was Fran. All of them had pitched in with so much information; after months that lead to years, as piece by piece their knowledge of alchemy had increased, they finally found something of an answer. No, Cardia’s poison wasn’t gone–that was a dream still far away, but this step, it was the larges they had taken. A leap of faith that had reaped rewards far better than any journey so far–but Saint supposes without those other trips, even this wouldn’t be their reality.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like one. 

His hand, the backs of his curled fingertips gently brush against the side of her face–bare, _skin on skin_. The joy in his chest–the swell of his heart–he is certain that his eyes are welling up as a result, and so he closes his eyes to relish in the feeling of her warm and soft skin against his fingers. He’ll cherish this forever. But he knows he mustn’t get too far ahead of himself; there’s still a long journey ahead. But suddenly, it doesn’t feel so strenuous or painful. He looks at her meaningfully and with his other hand he takes hers into his own, and like the time before he presses it to his face. This time there’s no burning of flesh, no _melting away_ , and her eyes light up like he’s never seen before.

Unlike himself she cannot contain the torrent of emotions; she has _far_  less practice in doing so, and despite the bright and vibrant smile on her face, she begins to cry. 

“Now, now,” he says softly, smiling widely, “there’s no need for that. This is only a temporary fix, you know.” He may be chiding playfully, but he understands. He _really_  does, and he lets his thumb, from the hand resting delicately on her cheek, brush away the rolling tears. Fran, with additional information from experts around the world and access to the lost zicterium Queen Victoria and her soldiers found clues towards in their absence, was able to create something of a suppressant from it. Judging from Cardia’s expression the taste had been rather odd, and though she didn’t feel any different–Saint hadn’t a moment of hesitation when reaching to take off his glove and touch her face. 

And the results were worth this time of waiting.

He chuckles softly, and leans in to rest his forehead against hers–eyes looking so deeply into her own that he could get lost for hours. But he doesn’t, as the fresh tears forming at the corner of her smiling eyes catch his attention. His warm hand moves just slightly so that he might brush his thumb over her lips; he’s felt their softness countless times in tiny, brief, encounters, however now it feels almost _treacherous_  to take this new found warmth and freedom for his own. Even though he _knows_  it is. Even though he’s almost certain she’d have not a complaint in the world–.

Her tears have stopped, he’s noticed; her eyes expectant, but nervous all the same. “And here I was holding myself back,” he murmurs quietly, “you shouldn’t look at me like that, _Cardia_.” He pulls back just enough to step closer–pulling her tightly towards him as he tilts his head down (and hers up) to press his lips gently, but firmly, to hers. This time he doesn’t need to pull away; he can enjoy this for as long as he likes, he can kiss her over and over– _and he does_. Her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, her gloveless fingers; not a single portion of the skin he has access to is left alone until he ends up back at her lips again. They’re both a little breathless, and both grinning like fools. And suddenly the thousands of years of his life have been _worth living_.


	8. helping Cardia fall asleep

Saint’s fingers are gentle in their movements, careful not to catch the waves of her hair in twists or knots as he runs his hands through the lengthy strands. She’s laid sideways across his lap, her head supported by the soft cushions and the armrest of the couch, and he’s almost tempted to compare the way her legs are curled up (despite the empty space further down) to a kitten. They shouldn’t fall asleep here; it’s late, and she should sleep in bed so that she may rest properly, but he can’t bring himself to make the suggestion. 

She’s so pliant beneath his touch; her eyes closing as she hums in contentment–how is he supposed to contend with such a pleasant feeling? He doesn’t think any further on it, and focuses on continuing what he’s doing. The glove of his left hand is discarded beside them; her hair is safe to touch, and if it’s the only thing he can lay his hands on directly then he will make the most of it. The softness of her hair is just as soothing for him to run his hand through as the action itself is for her, or so it seems. Cardia starts to fidget, and he reprimands the movement with a small ‘ _shh_ ’ as he runs his fingers through her hair again.

“It’s okay if you fall asleep.” he says quietly, noting how relaxed she’d become over time (as it was likely the reason for her movement–an idea in her mind of retiring to bed for the night). Saint would hardly be bothered by the prospect of having to carry her and tuck her in later on, in fact he’d quite like it; she was adorable as she slept, and if it meant he could steal a few more minutes watching her sleep peacefully then he’d take it. Perhaps it was a crude thought, but in reality he hopes if she falls asleep _happy_  like this then maybe, just maybe, those fears that give way to nightmares will leave her alone. 


	9. bathing Cardia

“This is nice, isn’t it, Cardia-san?” he speaks softly, his words echoing slightly within the walls of the bathroom. He leans on the side of the tub, dragging his finger tips gently through the water. It’s warm, and the bubbles tower far above its surface. Ever since she had first had one, Cardia had come to love bubble-baths, and who was Saint to deny her them? Perhaps he goes overboard from time to time, the bubbles spilling out over the side when she was settled within the tub. But even so, Saint-Germain didn’t mind. He’d just laugh and throw down a towel before kneeling; telling himself to clean it up properly later. After all at least this time it wasn’t water _damming_   _up in his lounge_. He thinks fondly on that time--he’d been quite furious of course, but both Impey and Lupin had been quite apologetic. Though that didn’t stop the Count from banning Impey from using any _strange_  inventions to try and hasten the completion of his chores--he agreed rather quickly, much to Saint’s pleasure. Perhaps his _smile_  was one reason for the lack of argument. 

Focusing back on reality, he pushes himself up from being seated on his heels and shuffles around the tub to behind Cardia. He takes her locks of hair into his hands without hesitation--truly, he loves their softness beneath his fingertips. “I’ll wash it for you now, so please hold still.” he states, careful to not get water in her eyes as he wets it, is gentle so that he doesn’t hurt her, and is careful not to tangle the locks as he massages in the shampoo. He chuckles softly, “do you remember the first time I did this?” he asks, “you were very tense, it was quite adorable,” He purses his lips and leans in to peer over her shoulder at her, “don’t you think?” he questions in an airy tone as he pulls away to his original position, rinsing his hands off in the water beneath the bubbles. Once again he’s moving swiftly to pour water carefully over her head, hand covering her eyes gently so that nothing gets into them. “You were mostly nervous I might touch you accidentally, methinks.” he muses aloud, “I’m glad that’s not an issue anymore.” his smile grows a little wider--because his elation is real.

But, his smile hasn’t really changed over the years; gentle and welcoming as ever, kind and yet somehow deceptive of the thoughts that may lie behind it. Even those who had come to know him best couldn’t always work out what was on the Count’s mind--even more so now, when he never allowed it to fade. One again, the smile had become something plastered onto his face. But this time he was quite aware of what feelings it masked, but he doesn’t regret hiding them--because he doesn’t want Cardia to blame herself. That kind of burden is unnecessary. She’d always regretted harming him; the look in her eyes every time they’d shared a gentle kiss more than enough to clarify that for him. That joy, but the lament--he understood it, but that only made him more insistent. He’d had to prove to her that it was _okay_. Not once did he ever show a sign of pain or suffering; not once did he even consider that _sting_  on his lips something bad. 

If she sees the true expression beneath his smiles... what would she think, or feel in return? He was content to have her _not_  worry about him for now.

_If she even could_.

“You know, I ran into Fran in town earlier,” he begins, as he switches to massaging a _jasmine-scented_  conditioner into her hair. “I’m sorry you couldn’t come with me, but Sisi was here with you so I’m sure you weren’t lonely.” he chuckles, “but Fran did ask how we were...” he hums and his hands pause. “I had to wonder how to answer at first,” he explains, looking up to the ceiling, “I think he still feels guilty, but I told him you were fine--myself too, of course.” his fingers continue running through the long strands, Cardia’s head shifting backward slightly with each movement as though to accommodate for the action as he looks back towards her with the same affectionate smile. The peace was nice, he supposed. The house with just the three of them, their friends paying frequent visits, and the walks into town even for the most menial of errands were somehow fun.

Perhaps because these days Saint never seemed to stop talking; there was always a lot going on in London, and Lupin was _still_  often up to mischief... ah, well, _gentlemanly thieving_  he should say. Sholmes still actively chasing him down for his own amusement--somehow Lupin always escaped, but Saint had to wonder if a private detective of his caliber was just doing it intentionally so he’d have many more opportunities to mess with him. Not that he could discredit Lupin’s skill either; those two made for quite interesting adversaries, and the Count was glad to be on friendly terms with both of them. Realising he was caught up in thought, the nobleman releases Cardia’s hair and gets to his feet--knees awkwardly clicking as he did so. “My, I must be getting old,” he says, most amused, and walks the few paces to around the side of the tub.

“Now,” he looks down at the woman in his tub, looking no less than a beautiful porcelain doll, “I suppose we had best get you out of there before you get all wrinkly.” He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face--the look she’d give him with these _terrible_  comments of his still very fresh in the forefront of his mind. “May I have your hand, _my lady_?” he asks the question, one he’ll never get an answer to--but he can _imagine_. He can picture the blush on her cheeks, the bright and starry smile, the cheerful but shy ‘yes, Saint-Germain’ as she lifts her hand from the tub to offer to him. An action he now has to do for himself. But he still thanks her nonetheless, and he kisses her bare fingertips for a moment that turns to a minute. Then, with complete abandon for the sleeves of his shirt, after setting her arm around his shoulder, he moves to scoop her up in his arms. 

Her chin rests upon her chest, her free arm he moves to rest across her own body, and the side of her head settles against his shoulder. At this point, there’s no words to be said as he carries her across the room but he steals a glance downward--her chest stained pink and white with scars that have only barely begun to heal. A sign she was free from the horologium. But his smile fades as he stares at it--he can touch her now, and yet the limp body in his arms will respond to nothing. Her glazed eyes don’t light up the way they used to, and her lips no longer procure sound--that beautiful voice he has to cling desperately to a memory of. But she is warm. And it’s that warmth he holds onto for hope. A hope that one day the life will return to her eyes. And he must, _must_ , ensure the first thing she is greeted with is the most wonderful of smiles and a gentle ‘ _good morning, Cardia-san_.’


	10. "You can lay down in my bed if you need to."

Was it his slower pace than usual? Or the fact he’d sat mostly in darkness for the day? Whatever the reason may have been, it wasn’t difficult to notice the concern on Cardia’s expression the past few hours. It wasn’t, of course, that he had been trying to hide it from her–if he truly wanted to, he would have proceeded through his day much more naturally. Then again, a part of him suspects even that wouldn’t have been so easy; his masks had long since vanished around her, because he was **comfortable** and he knew she, of all people, accepted him for who he was. _And_  still loved him. He knew, and reminds himself daily, that there’s nothing he’d trade in the world for the woman at his side.

> “You can lay down in my bed if you need to.”

She’d followed him into the hall and stopped him on his way to get himself some tea– _cinnamon_  tea, in fact, since it would give him a little more relief from the pain. Her gesture is a kind one, and it brings a smile to his face despite the pounding in his head. He doesn’t like to see her worried face, but it does make him happy to be reminded just how much she cares for his health. Unlike her–for now–his life is far shorter and fragile, though he’s thankful for that one slightly _subhuman_  factor. Though it doesn’t grant him the immortality he had once upon a time, he still has much more freedom than a regular man; being able to touch Cardia just one of those many possibilities he has to put it to use.

He places a hand upon her head gently, rustling the soft brown locks beneath his palm, and then he moves to cup her face with the same gloved hand. “That’s quite all right,” he says quietly; it would be rude of him to sleep in her bed when it was unnecessary to do so, but it’s still amusing–and _sweet_ –that despite all the other pain and suffering he’s been through she treats something as silly as a cold no differently. Though he supposes on the contrary he wouldn’t hesitate to offer his own room to her, either; nor would he dismiss any kind of pain she was in. “Too many late nights, I should think.” The truth; perhaps he’d read one too many alchemy books long after Cardia had retired to bed. ‘Just this last one’, he’d say, but new knowledge would spur him to to move onto something else with renewed vigor. 

“I can at least make it to my own room, Cardia-san,” he chuckles, “but thank you for your kind offer. I shan’t forget it.” He leans in to place a gentle kiss to her forehead–atop her hair–and pulls away just enough as he takes a moment (or perhaps it’s a couple) to look into her eyes. Suddenly he _doesn’t_  want to be away from her again, despite them being sat in the same room together just a few minutes ago. Well, if he had his way, he’d _never_  leave her side at all. He sighs softly, and stands back up to his full height. “But…” he reaches for her gloved hand, a mischievous smile on his face as he pulls it up to his lips, “join me for some tea first, _then_ I will lie down.” 


	11. dressing Cardia

He smiles, widely, as he holds up his most recent purchase. Of course, he’s already treated it against her poison before presenting it to her. “It matches with my own,” he says, “you _do_ remember that time, don’t you? Impey made quite the scene, running away when you so kindly asked for his assistance.” he laughs softly, because the blush slowly crawling across her face as she averts her gaze is very apparent to his keen eye–she’s become much more _understanding_ of the reason he acted that way now, and she seems hesitant to comment on it. Still, despite the reminiscing being rather amusing, that’s not why he called her into his room. It had taken some effort to acquire this–an intricate and valuable _kimono_ from Japan–and he’s ever-so-eager to see her finally in it. He just _knows_ she’ll look beautiful as ever, and if he puts on his own too then they can match. Though it will serve no purpose other than just simply _pleasing_ him. “I apologise for embarrassing you,” he says with amusement (clearly not _entirely_ sorry, because it’s a matter of fact that he loves to see _all_ the expressions he can make her pull), “but, will you still put it on for me?”

After getting the affirmative, he closes the distance between them to hand over the garment. She takes it from his hands, their fingertips barely brushing together in the process, and he reaches up--he can’t help it, really, not when she’s in front of him--to place his hand behind her head to pull her in. Well, they were alone, so it wasn’t so bad for him to take a _little_  moment for himself, right? Ah, well, those little moments added up somewhat--especially when they were at home, unoccupied by the progression of their journey or pre-occupied with thoughts on what the outcome may be. It was just _easier_  to relax in moments like this, in the comfort of the mansion where everything had begun; where from time to time they were able to see their friends again. He tips his head forward to place a quick kiss atop hers, and pulls away with a wide smile. “Go ahead,” he gestures toward the bathroom, and Cardia nods--compliant to his order--and scuttles into the room. Saint remains stood where he is, a knowing smile on his face as he waits a moment--a few--until he hears the call of his name he had been expecting. 

“Having trouble, Cardia-san?” he asks, curiously, hiding away the amusement in his voice (though his smile still makes it quite apparent) and takes a few steps toward the bathroom. “It seems I did forget to instruct you on how to put it on.” it was something he’d had the luxury of learning a short time ago--a little after struggling with Cardia. It had taken a bit of hefty research; there were only a few ways to go about acquiring instructions that were _English_   _or French_ so that he might understand them, but he’d somehow managed with the use of a few connections. He raps the backs of his fingers on the en-suite's door, the noise soft thanks to the texture of his gloves. “I’m coming in, all right?” There’s a short silence, followed by some rustling, before she responds with an ‘okay!’ Of course, he doesn’t hesitate once permission is granted, and slowly pushes open the door. 

He’s... _a little_ taken aback. The rustling, he had assumed it to be Cardia covering herself properly in her own clothes after a failed attempt; but now that he was looking at a woman clutching her shirt by the hem at her chest, that most definitely hadn’t been the case. But, he supposed she's likely come to terms already with the fact that she would only have to undress to put it on. He _had_  only intended to explain the layering required--to point out the necessities--but if Cardia wanted it this way, he was _hardly_  going to complain. Well, perhaps he would have to have words with her about taking him by surprise (even if it hadn’t been particularly apparent beyond the silence that followed his entry). “My, you’re quite eager.” he comments, and he moves over to pick up the traditional underclothes--a thin white fabric that would take the place of that which she normally wears.   


Perhaps this part he will be gentlemanly enough to keep his eyes averted for; there was a time and a place for advancements in their relationship--and he supposed with their situation still as it is, this is neither. “Please put this on in place of your current underwear. Ah, just the top half though.” he clarifies, “I will turn away, so tell me when you are done.” And he does as he says, spinning on his heels and waiting for Cardia to call his name. He forbids his imagination from running as he waits, finding solace in thinking about what she’ll look like in the kimono he’d spent so long trying to acquire for her--blue, with greyish intricate patterns, perhaps it contrasted with the green of her eyes, but it matched his own. And the sky. The sky she was always looking at, whether it was clear, cloudy, or even that _midnight blue_. Her voice doesn’t allow his thoughts to get far into actually _picturing her in it_ as she calls out his name so that he might turn around--and of course he does, with a smile no different than usual. 

“Good,” he states, and then he picks up the kimono, holding it up by it’s collar and walking behind Cardia. “Here, put your arms in.” he spreads it wide and slips the long sleeves over her arms. She hasn’t removed her gloves, but that only serves to amuse him--a habit of hers, he supposes, in case she touches him by accident. He doesn’t blame her, especially with impulses like his to hold her close as often as possible. Well, and it worked a little more in his favour _now_. He laughs quietly to himself, and then rests his chin on her shoulder as he uses his arms to close the kimono in front of her. For a moment only one of his hands holds it in place while the other grasps onto hers and places it atop his own. “Hold this here, and wait.” he says quietly, knowing he was right beside her ear, and slips his hand away as she nods slowly. 

He comes back with the _obi_ , the second to final piece of the puzzle, along with the cord necessary to keep it in place. Perhaps usually he would have considered allowing her to learn through practice, but he wasn’t quite done with getting close to her. Once again he’s behind Cardia, his breath ghosting her neck as he peers over her shoulder so that he might _just_  see what he’s doing with his hands as he wraps the obi around her, and ties it. Then he takes the cord and wraps that around to hold it in place, before finishing with the obi. It takes a few minutes--he’s not been able to practice putting on a _woman’s_  kimono before, but the Count is never one to forget what he’s learned. 

Though he has finally finished, rather than letting her go, his arms snake and close themselves around her body and he steals a glance at her face. “You’re blushing,” he murmurs quietly, arms squeezing just that little bit tighter as he takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. “You’re always so beautiful,” he adds, “it’s a wonder I can ever take my eyes off of you, you know.” Reluctantly he does let her go, and his hands push her by the shoulders over to the tall mirror. He looks at her eyes in the reflection--looks at her entire form--and then takes a small step back so that he might take up her hair in his hands. At first, his fingers slip through it, and then he begins to pull it all together careful not to miss any strands. “May I?” he asks, reaching for accessories he’d bought some time ago so that she might put her hair up within the summer months, and with her permission granted, he’s sure to style her hair in a way that will match _perfectly_.


	12. "Be careful."

Truly, a peaceful day as any. In fact, Saint had been very _happy_ ; they had acquired something that he felt _must_  be useful in the search to find a way to _save_  Cardia. Yes, he wasn’t only helping her have the most normal life he could, but he was also saving her from the personal Hell that tormented her. That inability to touch without harming someone. That fear she might kill someone by accident again. He _knows_  all too well how much it consumes her–he recalls the first time she had told him the story of her past, of Elaine and Etty; how he’d _understood_ , and how he thought just for the briefest of moments that _she_  might just be the one to understand _him_. 

His actions may not have been accidents or unintentional, but that has never meant he enjoyed passing judgement on the innocent–on the ignorant–and is always consumed by a pain he can’t begin to put into words when he thinks about. It’s deep; comprised of regret, guilt, _suffering_ , pain–the list he feels would be endless, after all it’s had thousands of years to build up. But, even so– _now_ … Now he knows that fate _can_  be fought against, and conquered. Perhaps it can only take a monster like him to do it–dying a hundred deaths to protect something so precious. Another’s–a _human’s_  life. 

Saint’s hand is placed upon her cheek; a smile so soft and gentle upon his features, one he would have never thought he could have again. But _she_  gave it to him. She gave him many things–a life, a happiness, a future to strive for, a reason to believe in _himself_. …A reason to… **trust** himself. “Ah,” he makes a sound of mild surprise, though it’s still calm. “It seems we have company.” he comments; it’s not the rarest of occurrences, after all the research they are looking into–the documents they obtain–all pertain to _Isaac’s_  research, and extend beyond that, into realms barely even tread upon by others (and that is what makes it _so damn hard_  for them to find what they _need_ ). 

After all, to create a way for someone to live _without a heart_  would only bring forth the wrath of Idea–he knows this. It’s no different from Isaac’s aspiration to recreate the Philosopher’s Stone; because _that_  is what they would need. But Omnibus is well aware that isn’t what Saint-Germain seeks. The Horologium buried in Cardia’s chest that he is trying to _rid_  her of is the proof of that resolve. Those who seek the Philosopher’s Stone; they will seek out Cardia, and it’s the day _that_  research of Isaac’s becomes more common knowledge that he fears. But he is not so old that he cannot protect her for now–so he turns with a smile (though in his eyes glint something fierce and unforgiving) to face those that have followed them, his hand falling from Cardia’s face so that with a flick of his wrist he can release the blade he keeps hidden there.

Never again will anybody lay a hand on Cardia except himself.  
Never again will someone torment her.  
Never again will mistakes of her past have to chase her and repeat.  
 _He_  will continue to kill, _continue to sin_ , in order to protect her and the _precious soul_  that resides in her beautiful doll-like body.

> “Be careful.”

Her words momentarily distract his focus upon the people in front of him, and he laughs softly–a quiet sound meant only for her. “Please,” he states, amused, “you speak as though they stand a chance against me.” His eyes lock with one of the _enemies_ , but his words continue only for Cardia. But perhaps they may also serve as a warning–a warning that the desire of a man’s passion and promise can _never_  be defeated. He has all the strength he needs, knowing Cardia is at his side; knowing she will never leave him, knowing that she loves _him_ , despite all he is. All he was. All he will continue to be.

 “I made a promise. To you. To myself. To Lupin. To _our_ friends. And I _won’t let you down_.” 


	13. "Who did you get all these roses for?"

It’s taken some time of preparation; he wants to make this memorable, _for her_ , mostly. Of course it pleases himself to be able to buy things for her, too, and put a smile on her face; but the important part is that it _actually_  does that. There’s little point to his efforts if they’re fruitless–much like his main task in life now. So his hands work diligently, but delicately, in positioning everything as perfectly as possible. Usually he would contently accompany her on a trip to town, but this time he had to apologise; lying about being rather tired, and suggested she perhaps pay a visit to Fran in the Lower Town–not that he enjoyed sending her there alone, but he knew she was no stranger to adversity anymore, and could _very well_  protect herself after everyone’s instruction all that time ago.

He looks over to Sisi as he barks once and rises to his feet. ‘ _Already?_ ’ he thinks to ask himself, but it’s apparent how excited the dog gets when it’s Cardia (or Delly) that he notices. The Count sighs softly; no this wasn’t quite set up how he wanted it to be, but at the very least he had the majority of what he wanted done completed. There were only a _few more boxes_  left untouched–he could finish this later, or perhaps find another use for those some other time. He spares a glance at the boxes to one side, and watches as Sisi darts to the back door Cardia peers her head out of–she must have heard him bark from the garden in the first place after all. He chuckles; a shame, maybe, but he isn’t disappointed as he smiles back at her when she waves–and then she steps out into the yard with a rather curious expression. 

> “Who did you get all these roses for?”

Saint half expected the question, but only laughs in response as she walks up to him, looking at the scenery; a decorated white wooden archway that he is stood beneath that leads to the main part of the garden. It’s settled between two flower beds, and accentuates it’s own position, along with the green grass beyond it, and the flowerbeds of vibrant colours that border the area. 

“I’m surprised you’d think to ask that question, on today of all days.” he reaches a hand out to stroke her hair–from the top of her head, down the side of her face, until he’s running his fingers through the ends of her hair–and he steps closer. His free arm reaches to pull her in by the waist. “You’re back early; I should probably be a little bit mad… but how can I be unhappy, when I get to see your smiling face?” he muses, looking down at her in his arms. “Ah, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it… that’s why this is all for you.” he states, “I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. I wasn’t tired, but I needed to do this in secret.” he chuckles, and places a gentle kiss atop her forehead, atop the brunette locks of hair. 

He hums, “I should think there around nearly a hundred roses here, but there is one single rose that signifies my infinite love for you.” A rose he thinks to call _fake_ , but in reality it is the most real. Immortal like he once was; a rose that will forever contain feelings that he’ll one day no longer to feel once death steals him away from her. Because, though he’s determined to live as long as possible with her, he _knows_  he is the oldest of the two, and no matter how _well_  he lives his life now, the damage done is something permanent and he will inevitably leave this world before her. But he wants her to be happy–forevermore, even without him. Still, that is many years in the future, and he doesn’t intend to bring it up. 

Instead, he releases her in order to reach into his sleeve and procure the rose in question. “Not much of a magic trick, I’m afraid. Lupin is far better at those.” he chuckles, but he still holds it between them, where there’s a fragment of space. The rose is no less red than the others, but unlike the rest it is one that will never die; made from materials and wires to look at feel almost entirely authentic. She looks at it, fascinated, but somehow fearful–perhaps because he recalls the time she spoke of destroying the beautiful nature around her. There’s no way to coat real roses against her poison without them dying prematurely from the counter-agent, but this one can be– _has been_ –and he gently taps it to her lips, before he leans in to kiss the other side of it. And when he finally pulls away, he grins, leaving the soft rose pressed to her mouth.

“Like me, this rose will not die from your touch. Like me, it can feel your gentle warmth, and…” he takes one of her hands, peels the glove from her fingers, and holds it palm facing up. He places the rose in her hand, his other hand encloses it between their palms–his gloves still on, of course, as he squeezes her hand and the replica rose between his clasping hands–and he pulls them towards him to kiss his own fingertips above her own. “…it will be able to forever contain my love for you, even after I am gone. No, even when we both are gone, it will live on as proof of our love’s existence.” He chuckles softly, “I love you, Cardia-san, _please_ , _forever;_   _be my Valentine_ ; my beloved, my wife, and my life.”


	14. "I'll get you a blanket, you're going to be here a while."

“Look at you, worrying about me. I’m doing a terrible job at making you happy after all this.” he smiles, though a little disappointed with himself for allowing exhaustion of all things to consume him and force him into sickness. A permanent lethargy that somehow left his entire body _aching_. He hadn’t complained–not aloud–but the slight twitches in his brow when he shifted, or the fine line his mouth settled into when he realised _after_  moving that he still _hurt_ , hadn’t gone unnoticed. So, somehow, he really wasn’t surprised by Cardia’s statement.

He’d somehow managed to get comfortable on the couch of all things, Cardia seated in front of it; her back against it’s edge as she had chosen to sit on a couple of cushions as opposed to making him move. It was intensely considerate of her, but really shouldn’t have been necessary. But in this position everything really did ache less, he could run his fingers through her hair with his eyes closed and simply _relax_. It had been after a short while of doing exactly that, when his movements had slowed with a pure _tiredness_ , that she’d informed him that she would get a blanket. 

Well, it certainly wasn’t a lie that he would be here a while. 

His fingers remove themselves from between the strands of her hair, so that she might follow through with her statement, and his hand instead returns to being settled beside the cushion his head is currently propped up slightly on. Saint-Germain considers himself blessed, when he opens his eyes to see her dashing off–as filled with concern as she may be about him, there’s nothing that can seemingly stop her joy these days; and he is very, so very, very, glad for that. He closes his eyes again as he hears her patter of feet head up the stairs, focusing on relaxing in the quiet.

He barely even registers the moment she returns with the blanket; but he _does_  note the warmth suddenly covering his body and, though his eyes remain closed, he can sense when she’s stood directly in front of him after having pulled the cover right the way up. He allows his hand the freedom of movement again, and reaches out to grasp hers before she has the chance to sit down. His eyes open, slowly, and he meets her gaze with a soft smile. “Join me.” he murmurs, “there’s enough room, Cardia-san.” he gives up her hand in favour of switching to the hem of her shirt–pulling her closer until her knees buckle against the edge of the sofa and she collapses over him. 

Regrettably, though, her arms outstretch to catch herself on the back of the couch before she lands atop him and he _pouts_ –a reaction that was once rare in occurrence. 

“You don’t want to?” he asks, reaching up to cup her face as her hair hangs down around it. She smiles, and he’s sure he feels her applying just the slightest amount of pressure to feel his warmth even more. It’s been so long, and yet the feeling never stops feeling _new_. The smoothness of her porcelain skin beneath his fingertips, something he’s been able to touch directly, _finally_ , for a few weeks now. But he supposes that’s where his exhaustion stems from–a build up from the end of their journey, his fretting all this time that something _might_  go wrong afterwards which lead to him rarely taking his eyes off of her. And, of course, the nights he’s spent with her… in various ways.

He suspects she feels guilty about it, despite the smile on her face. Something in her eyes, perhaps? “I’m selfish,” he utters, “this is my fault, and I should suffer the punishment of not being able to touch you until my exhaustion is cured but…” he turns onto his back–ignores the ache it causes to shift–and uses the hand no longer pinned beneath him to pull back the covers. “…I don’t want to. Please, lay with me, Cardia-san.” he pleads in a low, quiet voice. “Let me sleep with you in my arms; knowing you’re safe and warm…” he smiles up at her, “it will help me rest easier.” He can see her waning; her resolve to leave him in peace faltering–and he takes that chance to shift the hand from her face to her arm, grip tight enough to prove he won’t let this go, but not so strong that it might hurt her.

And with a small sigh, she gives in. She positions herself just in front of him as he returns to laying on his side–his arms wrapping themselves around her waist possessively. “I’m happy,” he says softly in her ear, nuzzling against her, voice quiet but sincere; now he knows she’s safe, and his, and no longer will there be fears to consume him or pain for him to feel in his chest any time something goes _wrong_. “Really…” he breathes, and closes his eyes, slowly allowing sleep to take him in his absolute security. “…really happy, _Cardia_.”


	15. "Kiss me."

It’s become somewhat commonplace for him to lay with her; accidental touches, after all, are no harm-–no _real_  harm. He lays in front of her, facing her, their hands connected between them. Sometimes he’ll take one of them back and use it to brush the brunette locks away, or caress her face gently-–in an entirely soothing way. Right now, that’s exactly what he keeps doing; the backs of his fingertips just barely touching her face as he repeatedly strokes her cheek. As her eyes close, he knows she’s finding it just as relaxing as himself, and the smile ever--present on his face grows warmer. He loves this woman with all he is, but it doesn’t take moments like these for him to know that. He knows it. He _always_  knows it; just by catching a glimpse of her smile, just by  _seeing_  her with him-–knowing he’s attained a dream he’d once called unattainable. A dream he never would have thought could come true; not when he was opposing fate itself. And yet-–.

> “Kiss me.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment he’s stunned into silence (of his thoughts, at the very least); fingers ceasing their gentle touches as he looks into her sincere hues that have opened to gaze at him. “A… Kiss…?” he asks, not thinking to hide his hesitation. He brings a hand up, gloved fingers tracing her lips gently, and she closes her eyes. The fact that she _wants_  this baffles him; her protests and pouts were always apparent, and the regret in her eyes every time he kissed her by surprise always unmistakable–-especially when she caught glimpses of his singed lips healing. So… why? He relaxes his expression, and somehow ends up laughing softly. What a fool he has been, to not notice how deprived she must have been. And yet he always feels a pang of guilt when she’s upset by the damage done because of her poisonous skin. Then perhaps, despite that conflict, she prefers to embrace the sin of her own body, because she knows his actions will please her–-perhaps she is more aware than she thinks, of the fact that _it really is **okay**_  just _because_  it’s **him**.

“You certainly like to make things difficult for me, don’t you?” he laughs, but it’s only halfhearted-–it’s taken much of his willpower to come this far. He’s held back more times than he can count in the moments where the urge has taken him, just so that smile doesn’t fade from her expression. And yet it’s that same very smile that tempts him, and draws him in. It’s an infinite loop, akin possibly to a _purgatory_ –even though he knows his sins are something far beyond forgiveness. Once upon a time he could have considered his actions in favour of God, but that could no longer be considered the case when he slay-–no, _murdered-_ – **four**  of His apostles for the sake of the woman he loves with the whole of his age-old heart. Isn’t it funny? “And to think,” he begins, “I’ve been trying so hard to hold back so you won’t get mad at me anymore.”

Despite his words however, the control he has is slipping. He pulls his fingertips away from her mouth and lets out a gentle sigh. And before she can change her mind, he leans in to connect their lips firmly. It’s a little longer than usual, and in the _extended_ moment he spends kissing her, he grabs one of her hands. The moment he separates, he pulls her fingers to his lips; his brows are furrowed just slightly, but he smiles. He smiles _widely_ , as the fingers he’s taken to kissing in place of her lips hide from her the burns that begin to quickly heal. He trails the kisses down her fingers to the palm of her hand, before he simply looks down, hands both suddenly clutching the _one_  of hers. He squeezes, with more force than he ever intended to muster–-the sting has remained so much longer on his lips this time-–to the point it still feels like it’s there after a minute. For some reason, he can’t find it in him to say he dislikes the feeling. 

Healed, his head raises, tears in his eyes. “One more time, _please_.” he implores, edging his way closer to her again. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, relinquishing her hand in order to place both of his own upon her cheeks. She wasn’t to turn her face away, he didn’t want to see suffering or guilt–-didn’t want her to think _anything_  negative. “Close your eyes.” he demands, tone a little sharper than usual, but no less quiet in this situation; and she complied, after all she _had_  asked for this. Once more his lips connect with her own, feather-light but repetitive in their action; there’s an unmistakable sound of burning–-and it carries an unmistakable _smell_ , too, in its own right. But before she can open her eyes, he covers them with a hand of his. “Just a little more. I want to _sear_ this into my memory. Please don’t look.” She nods, just once, hesitantly; and Saint can do little more than whisper a ‘thank you’ to her before he kisses her once, twice-– _thrice_ more. “I love you,” he says, in the time it takes his mouth to heal, and he finally uncovers her eyes; revealing to her the happiest of smiles he can–-lips curved with the most genuine joy. 

 _“I really, really, love you, Cardia_.”


	16. Unreciprocated hug

He has to wonder how long it’s been since she’s been sat between his legs-–her back to his chest–-sharing the warmth of the blanket in front of the fire, as he finishes the sentence he’s reading aloud. This was something rather commonplace; for some (to him) bizarre reason, she enjoyed merely listening to him speak, and so it had become something of a routine on evenings where they had time to relax that he would read to her a book of her choosing. This time it was a fairy tale, _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_. Though one he better knows under the name  _La Belle Au Bois Dormant_. A bittersweet tale, in essence; about a King and Queen’s daughter cursed for death, but saved and instead subjected to the prophecy of sleeping for one-hundred years until the prince of another King awakens her; it’s here that he’s paused–-where the pair have spent hours talking, and still not said everything they wish to toward each other. There’s little point to continuing, he knows, as Cardia’s tilted head and gentle breaths give him enough of an indication that she has fallen asleep.

He closes the book and reaches back behind him, over his head, to set it on the cushions of the sofa, and then returns his arms to his bent knees. He turns his head just enough to lean forward and rest his cheek atop her hair, closing his eyes and smiling softly. Now that he thought about it, perhaps they had been sat here far longer than usual-–the crackling of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and their even breaths the only small sounds filling the silence now that he’d ceased talking. But, it was more comfortable than any other silence; and he can’t deny the happiness that swells in his chest just by having her so close, not thinking about anything else, not _worried_  about anything else. Somehow, just feeling her warmth and _peace_  removes all of his fears; seeing her smile erases all the pain he’s suffered, hearing her words of love and affection make him _sure_  that he will undoubtedly love her forever. ‘Til death’ a phrase that doesn’t adequately describe his feelings; no, he will love her forever–-eternally. He’ll keep living until it’s _impossible_  to live a moment longer, with her at his side-–her _in his arms_. 

At that thought, his hands move to slip beneath the blankets and his arms wrap themselves securely around her waist. He doesn’t want to squeeze too hard as risk waking her, but he holds her as tightly as he can to his body. His head slips to rest upon her shoulder, and he already knows it’s too late for him to give in to the thought of letting her go–-of moving her to bed. He just wants to keep her here forever, the comfort he finds just _holding_  her enough to bring a smile to his face, and tears to his closed blue eyes. Saint takes a deep breath; inhales her scent and allows his fingertips to curl just slightly into the fabric of her pajamas, careful however not to accidentally grasp onto her and risk waking her. He chuckles–-very softly–-and sighs gently. “Just like that prince…” he muses, “I don’t think _years_  would be enough time for me to tell you everything I want to.” he keeps his voice quiet, and thinks about how _terribly_  sappy it all sounds. And yet, he can imagine each of her reactions; the beautiful smile she’d offer him, the look of adoration and understanding-–of _love_ -–in her eyes, and the gentle assurance that she _feels the same_. 

Once upon a time, he would have thought all this impossible; this happiness of his, this _life_  he has to live at her side: Every moment so _very_  precious, because it is limited. But the limit doesn’t scare him; no, it’s welcome to his age-old heart, and certainly encourages him to treasure her all the more in the time he _does_  have. She chased after him so relentlessly, it was only fair now that he repay her suffering with an infinite happiness-–in kind with that which her presence provides to him. Finally, he raises his head, chin resting on her shoulder as he glances toward her resting face. Once again, he’s made to chuckle; she looks _far_  too innocent like this, _far_  too vulnerable-–but it’s an expression, a state, meant only for him. Because she feels _safe_. She’s said it time and again, yet sometimes he still finds it hard to believe after all the danger he had put her in. He’s made a million promises to the others, and a million promises to her, but that doesn’t mean he will pick and choose on waht to fulfill. He’ll make every dream, every wish, every single promise come true; for her, for _them_ -–yes, the friends they _both_  hold dear. 

“ _J’taime_ , Cardia.” he says softly into her ear, unconsciously embracing her just a fragment tighter. “Forever and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation:  
> "I love you, Cardia."


	17. "Don't leave."

Together… oh how he would love that. He’s truly, eternally, grateful that it’s something Cardia desires so strongly. But there’s only so much he can grant himself in a battle against fate–against guardians of history and humanity’s prosperity–and a life following the countless battles is not one of those things. He _will_  die, but right now he feels more alive than ever; right now, he doesn’t fear the death that will eventually take him, because it all comes from protecting _her_. She looks mildly surprised when his glove melts just slightly–enough so that he can prick her skin–and it takes all he has not a simply catch her in his arms as she collapses almost _instantly_.   


“I had an anesthetic needle in my glove.” he’d explained, “…Don’t worry. You’ll be able to move again in no time.” Only, it would be long after he had disappeared–long after she had any hope of tailing him. She’s trying to speak and protect, he _knows_ , he can see and read every word in her eyes brimming with tears. The _pleas_  for him to stay, to not die, to _live_  with her–but he **has**  to cast that all aside. He has to _let her go_. But that doesn’t mean his love will fade; no, he will give his life for the love he feels for her, he will _cherish_  the love he knows is felt toward him right until his final dying breath. And maybe, just maybe, on the off-chance he is forgiven for his sins, he’ll pray to meet her again in the afterlife–in _heaven_ , where she will undoubtedly belong when her time comes.

“Now, finally... I feel like I’m truly alive.” he muses, _crouches_ , stroking her hair as he speaks, looking at it affectionately. He could do this forever, truly, he could be _so happy_ ; but, no, he has made his decision--rather than making her have to suffer living alongside him, he will fight to enable her to live a comfortable life, even if it _is_ without him. She has many at her side who will care for her just as much as he; he’s _not_  leaving her alone. “It’s all your doing. Thank you... Cardia-san.” He continues to smile, and turns his attention back to her as he strokes her hair for the last time--rises to his feet before he can hesitate any longer.

“And-- _goodbye_.”   


His words are final and he turns on his heels to leave, though he struggles and _fights_  not to look back. 

> “Don’t leave.”  
> 

There’s a falter in his step; there’s no way she should be able to speak yet, but that was unmistakably _her_  voice. Is his mind playing tricks on him? Or... he halts--though reluctant to, knowing it’s risking the threads of his resolve to _leave her_ , and he turns his head to look back over at her. The tears streaming her cheeks; the _pleading_  look in her eyes, they tug at every part of his soul and his confident smile slips, betraying the honest feelings in his heart. His desire to stay. His wish to do exactly as she says--if she was even the one to say it; she’s back to crying in the silence, and he wonders if it was the _guilt_  weighing on his mind that made him hear things. Made him hear the words he knows she wants to say to him. He knows what his answer must be, but he walks slowly back towards her. He crouches, _scoops her into his arms_ , and holds her tightly to his chest. “I love you.” he says softly, trying to hold together what he can in his voice. “ _I love you_ , Cardia-san.” 

But, this is something he can’t let go after all. The feelings that drive his desire to stay are also his resolve to leave and _fight_. He lays her back on the floor, runs a hand gently down the side of her face; smiles at her with a renewed confidence. “I promise,” he says, “I’ll fight. I’ll get rid of all the apostles, and...” he rises to his feet once more--turns his back to her, clenches a fist at his side. “...before my life is extinguished, I’ll return to you. I’ll hold you again one final time. There’s... no saving me, but I’ll come back for you to _tell you_  that you’re safe. I want...” he shakes his head and sighs out softly to compose himself. “I’m sure, before I can die, I will want to hear your voice and see your smile one last time. So... please don’t cry, and believe in me.” he chuckles and spares a final glance over his shoulder, down at her, before he begins his walk away. This time, for real, he disappears into the darkness.


	18. "Don't die... Don't die on me. Please..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is where the archive warning comes into play. Content consists of depictions of gore, violence, decapitation and impalement.

‘Regenerate. _Regenerate_. **Regenerate**!’ The word repeats itself in his mind like a _mantra_ , a _prayer_ , an _insatiable **desire**_. A moment–he just _needs a moment_ , a _minute_ , to enable himself to _heal_. He moves to deflect another attack with the blade extended from his wrist; caught in a collision as the weapons clash but fail to separate, due to his steadily decreasing strength and depleting stamina. Already he has been injured countless times; blood both dried and _fresh_  lines the tears in his clothes, and drips from his face. 

“I still… have plenty of fight left in me… _Cardia-san_.” With the emphasis of her name, he summons the strength to push the attacker off of him, the girl mere _feet_  behind him as he protects her ceaselessly from the onslaught. Despite his state, his eyes still burn with a _hellfire_  of rage and _will_. And yet he barely gets a moment to _breathe_  before the next person takes the place of their ally, forcing Saint to take yet another step back-–pressured and unsteady in balance. His caution would have been _long_  since thrown to the wind if his life wouldn’t _end_  with death–-if Cardia wasn’t behind him, _needing his protection_. 

His skill doesn’t lie only in his blade, and with what _grace_ he can _muster_  he extends a leg to kick the enemy–-using the brief respite to duck out of reach of the blade and _run the man through_  with his own. He casts the man writhing to the side without a second thought, only to be faced with two more. He’ll find the time to regenerate, he’s sure, _because he must_. He allows the first attackers’ weapon to cut into his shoulder, and _holds it there_  by his hand; rendering him immobile, even as his struggles only serve to _painfully_ push the blade deeper. While he uses his feet-–his left foot, in particular, to once more to kick away the other coming at him from the side. 

His strength _wasn’t_  sub-par. With enough energy, the force of his kick sent the other stumbling away. “ _Cardia_.” Honorifics be _damned_ , “run.” he demands; a certain, unusual, sternness to his tone as with a muffled cry he pulls the blade from his shoulder and though blood quickly begins to stain his clothes _all over again_ , he doesn’t hesitate to use the arm he’s grasped to pull the attacker in–-and the momentum to take that hand and swing it in reverse; slicing the man’s neck; no suffering, just an instant death as blood sprays and the body collapses as though all the strings of a puppet have been cut. Cardia’s gasp alerts him of her presence still behind him; reminds him he has yet to hear her footsteps _fleeing_. 

“Go!” he yells, taking just a single moment to look over his shoulder at her. “Go somewhere safe–- _find the others_ –-” he cuts himself short when he notices the approach of yet another of their countless enemies; his focus torn from her gaze in an instant and instead focused upon their movements. He doesn’t know how else to get her to _move_ ; but she _can’t_  stay there–-she can’t keep witnessing this _slaughter_ , can’t keep watching him get _injured_. He grasps his bleeding shoulder, cold eyes focused on the enemy. “You’re in the way!” His words are harsh–-far more so than he had intended, but if _hurting her_  this way was the only way to get her to _go_ , then it had to be done. His mouth closes into a fine line after; he _hates_  the idea of hurting her, and can only imagine the shock on her expression as his back is turned to her. It takes all the _will_  he has not to apologise–-not to take back his words–- _not to cry_. 

But, if anyone can sense the desperation in his words, and the _underlying truth_  to that final statement, it would be her. If he wasn’t trying so hard to hold his ground in front of her, then he would have the freedom of movement; perhaps it’s that consideration that encourages her to step away from the wall she’s backed up to–-he hears her gentle and tentative footstep, that’s how he knows.

 

> “Don’t die… Don’t die on me. Please…”

He’s silent as he takes in her words, stepping forward to take on the opponent in front of him. He grabs their arm and turns so his back is to their chest–-their arm trapped between his own and his body–-as he disarms them and spares her a glance, a smile, as painful as it is to do so. “ _Hurry_.” the parting words he leaves her with, before finally turning and stabbing the male through the chest (with a practiced precision that reaches his heart), holding him there for a moment as he takes in what he can of a ragged breath. How much longer can his body hold out against this kind of assault? His regeneration _was_  dealing with smaller wounds; keeping him alive and dragging him back from the edge of fatality and pain each time severity was inflicted upon him–-but if he didn’t heal, if he couldn’t _have a cursed moment_  to collect his thoughts, he would _bleed out_  before the battle was even over.

One of the assailants makes an attempt to go after the _finally_  fleeing Cardia, and though Saint is barricaded by _three_ , he’s having _none of it_. Ignoring the damage he takes barging through; weapons tearing the flesh at the side of his body, battered shoulder undoubtedly on the verge of being _beyond repair_ , he runs after them with an unnatural speed–-remnants of the strength his body possesses when not teetering on the edge of utter _destruction_. And though he stumbles as he grasps for their collar-–his trained and silent footsteps are a  _Godsend_  in this moment as he _still_  manages to catch them by surprise and much like the previous man-–must like how he eradicated _Finis_ –-he impales them on his blade, only pulling it free and flicking it clean of the _dripping blood_  when he is certain Cardia is out of sight, and the others are upon him. He turns the face them with an expression of serenity, his arms crossing gracefully as he prepares himself for the most strenuous task of all; closing his eyes, heightening his senses and taking a _well-deserved_ deep breath.

“I’m sure you heard the lady,” he states, “I cannot die here.” _Not if he can help it_. In these few moments, he’s able to regain a little of his strength, but with _so many_  injuries for his regeneration to work on at once, the power is split and effects _minimal_. Cardia’s pleading still resounds in his ears–-it’s well founded, after that fiasco with _Idea_. However whatever his body _does_  manage to do, it’s enough for the pain to dull, enough that when he opens his eyes his vision is clear and his targets are set in stone. No distractions. No holding back. _Every last one_  of the ten still standing will be defeated. Not having to face _fellow immortals_  like he had in the past certainly made this task far less _daunting_ , and he had every confidence that he would emerge victorious–-though perhaps that is…  _at best_. 

Saint slowly loses track of time as the engagement presses on; the people against him, though raw in skill, were as relentless in their assault as he and though the Count had _much more_  movement than he did previously, it didn’t take long for his speed to diminish along with whatever stamina he had recovered–-a result of using too much energy fighting with all his strength in order to try and eliminate the enemies as quickly as possible. Well, he _was_  down to the final three; he has to commend himself for not falling _yet_ , at least, as he stands–-dignity fallen as he keels slightly, breath ragged and uneven as he peers at them through a single open eye. His shoulder throbs with a pain, that only makes him wince harder as he refrains as much as possible from showing _weakness_. Instead, he thinks of Cardia. 

She is waiting for him.

He stills his trembling hands as much as possible, straightens his back despite the _pain_  that shoots through his body in doing so. Three more. Just three. He steadies his breathing as much as he can, but it only causes a dizzy spell that makes him stumble forward. And he knows, _realizes_ , far too late that the enemy is taking advantage, and the best he can do to retaliate is hold his arms out in front of him–-defending himself _pitifully_. Ah. He opens his eyes, and casts them downward as a small space is created between himself and the enemy who had approached. He holds his breath; it _hurts_ , it hurts, it _hurts_. One of his hands holds his stomach, and the other uses what strength he has to grasp tightly to the sword he’s found lodged deep within him–-within… no, that’s pierced straight through him. It slices his hand with it’s sharpness, but he’s beyond caring. With a yell, a disgruntled and _pained_  cry, he pulls the sword back through himself; pulls, and then _pushes_ , throwing the other off balance while they’re _surprised_  he even has the strength–-his precise attack now a half-mess of _flailing_ , even if it was successful in adding another corpse to the ground. 

But _that’s it_. He’s crossed the threshold of his limit and his legs give out beneath him, accompanied by the strongest sense of vertigo even sitting atop a tall building couldn’t give him. Instantly, it makes him feel sick, and his hands holding his body from completely crashing to the floor are unfocused in his sight; he sways, he uses what sense he can to curl his fingers into the hard ground. He just needs some kind of _feeling_. He’s cold, he’s numb, and with every ragged breath he draws his stomach bleeds _profusely_. Saint is light-headed, and he doesn’t doubt the cause; he coughs and the _foul iron-tasting_ liquid fills his mouth. There’s really nothing more he can do–-he knows this, and yet he still tries just once more to get to his feet. He can’t let her down. He can’t _die_. He can’t _leave her_. **Not again**. He’d been through worse; _dying_  over and over, struggling until he saw her face again. Oh how he should have been mad at that time, but how could he be when _all he wanted_  was to see her again-–to hear her again-–to _hold her_  again? There’s a bitter laugh, but it _hurts_ , and so the sound is cut short. He can see the two approaching him, and his lips curve into a smile–- _too late_ , huh?

It takes him a moment to even register as he lifted by his hair from the ground, as _something_  is said to him, and pain hits him on a whole new level. The numbness of his body _negated_  by the slow pressure of a blade piercing his heart-–his _scream_ is involuntary, and only causes him to choke on _more_  blood–-how does he even have any left any more? A morbid thought, but it somehow crosses his mind, and for a split second he wishes death would just _take him already_. There’s an echo of a _bang_  in his ears, muffled and distorted, and the men gripping the sword _and his hair_  falls toward him. It draws from his throat another _cry_ , and he summons a reactive strength to just _push him away_ –-to _get him off_ -–before his hands land in his lap and over the hilt of the sword lodged in him, at the farthest reaches of his vision… he can see… _them_. It’s so hazy, _but_ , he can’t mistake those brunette locks or beryl hues–-cannot mistake the _vibrant red_ , that _blinding orange_ , or the _purest white_ … ah, that sound had been the pair of shotguns, too, hadn’t it?

He squints, does his best to keep his vision from failing-–to _stay alive_ –-they’re almost here after all; _she’s_  almost here, and his hand feebly reaches out as though he could already embrace her-–already touch her–-but, it’s hopeless. They can’t cover the ground between them quick enough, and he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He fights the urge to _fall_ , and smiles. Smiles as _best he can_ , because he got to see her face again. He got to see _all of them_  again. One last time-–and it was _more than enough_. He should be sorry, he thinks. There’s still so much he had to do; Lupin will probably be angry, _Cardia upset_ , after all he had made something of a silent promise to live… and yet here he was; breath thinning, pain coursing through his entire being–-but it’s dull, as though the last of his senses are fading. He _keeps smiling_. Blurred vision becomes a pitch black void, and the muffled calls of his name fall silent. And, somehow, he’s found peace.


	19. Sleepy Hug

He’s not entirely sure at what point they fell asleep, or at what point it was that he woke up, but her steady breathing indicates to him that she is still lost within the depth of slumber. Of course, it’s not unusual for him to be the first to awaken–as he takes to getting small tasks done around the mansion, or perhaps reads a little as he works on a breakfast the two of them can share when she comes downstairs. But… this time… he feels more sluggish than usual; perhaps he’s overworked himself a little, but he can’t bring his eyes to open at all once he closes him–and, he sighs a moment. After a short contemplation though, he supposes, as they have nothing planned for today, sleeping a while longer wouldn’t be a unwelcome respite. 

And yet, the next time he awakens he finds his arms are empty; the room is silent, and he _still_  feels the throes of sleep. But maybe that’s because it’s only been a single hour--it’s still _early_ \--and he wonders where Cardia has gone. Back to her own room, perhaps? He rolls over to the side she was sleeping on and inhales, burying his face into the pillow and sinking himself further into the comfort of his bed sheets. He’s warm... and cozy... and though he wonders where Cardia has gone, he can’t seem to summon the energy to _check_. When did he exhaust himself so? Ah, it’s too much to even think about in this haze--or so he thinks as he turns onto his side to allow himself to breathe properly.

This time, it’s the moment he’s on the verge of once more _falling_  to sleep that he hears the door open. It’s quiet--clearly both careful and cautious. He vaguely hears her name calling him softly, and yet his eyes don’t want to open. No, he _blinks_ , he catches glimpses of her coming closer, but his eyes can’t follow his will. From beneath the bed sheets he brings out an arm and through his moments hazy vision he reaches out towards her with a quietly mumbled ‘come here’. To reach him, now that he’s moved to the opposite side of the bed, she must lean on it--and the moment he feels the weight that _sinks_  the edge of the bed down, _feels_  her arm at the edge of his fingertips, he grasps and _pulls_. 

It’s messy and ungraceful, but he pulls her tightly into his arms without a second thought.

Five more minutes...” he breathes softly against her hair, “don’t go...” he’s not giving her a choice, he knows, but he can barely comprehend anything of even his own muffled words--unusually drawn out and gentle. “...Just for a little bit.” he takes a deep breath, allows himself to get comfortable, to slip back over the precipice of _sleep_ , now that she’s held tightly in his arms again. It’s so warm; so safe and secure--perhaps a strange thing for  _him_  to think instead of her, but no less true. At least this way she can never disappear; her warm body held against his is a _comfort_  more so than any luxurious bed or soft pillow, because _everything is fine_  when he has her close to him.


	20. "You're perfect."

Saint is taken a little by surprise by the statement; until now the room had been silent, each reading their own chosen books while enjoying each other’s quiet company--the securing presence they provided to each other, just knowing they were there, enough to seemingly keep them content. Saint’s face is revealed as he lowers his book, eyes settling on Cardia’s, though the expression he bears contains _confusion_. _Where did that come from?_  An unspoken question that crossed his mind; there are many things Cardia says that are sweet, kind, _precious to him_ , but the word _perfect_  had somehow never really come up before, and the Count finds himself conflicted over it. He wants to thank her for the sentiment, and yet he finds it such an _unbelievable_  description of himself that he wants to reject it entirely. 

If anything, _she_  is the perfect one.

He closes his eyes, takes a moment to organise the thoughts the statement provoked, and exhales slowly. 

“If a sinner like me is...” he pauses, and he shakes his head a little. Her words were meant with sincerity--she genuinely believes it; _he is perfect for her_. He smiles, because it’s not as though she’s trying to dismiss his past--dismiss his mistakes--but instead believes this _despite them_ , believes this about him while _embracing them_. “No,” he starts over, laughing a little at himself as he meets her gaze with open eyes once more, “you, too, are perfect, Cardia-san.” he offers, before lifting his book back up once more--though he still peers over the top of it as he hesitantly adds something of a ‘thank you’. 

A thank you that contains more than just a single layer of gratitude; because, truly, there are a multitude of things he is just _so thankful for_  when it comes to her--when it comes to the woman he loves so dearly. He could sit for hours, thanking her specifically for each and every thing alone but... he’s certain that by now she can sense these things, that she _knows_. Perhaps because the words _thank you_  slip from his lips so often that there’s just no _keeping count_  anymore. Each of them of course, are no less heartfelt than the last. Cardia is what makes most of his world, now--living without her would be a nightmare, a _Hell_ , and that is more than enough of a reason for him to treasure her every action and every word. 

A reason for him to thank her for just...  _existing_ , so that he was able to meet her--so that he was able to _fall in love with her_.


	21. "I wish I could tell you everything was going to be fine..."

It’s dark; there’s not an ounce of light between them, and Saint can’t even decipher how many hours... or more like days... have passed. There’s a gentle breeze; a crack in the rocks still letting the air circulate--even if it is shallowly--and for that he _must_  be thankful. Countless times he has _ruined_  his fingertips trying to just _dig_  them free; Cardia, for possibly the first time in a long time _wishing_  the suppressant on her poison would just _wear off_  already. But now? Saint merely sits leaning against the rocks that have them trapped--hoping, despite himself, for the very same thing Cardia is. They bide their time talking--about their journeys, about their friends, about anything that can occupy their minds: About _anything_  that will keep Cardia’s attention _away from_ **him**. 

> "I wish I could tell you everything was going to be fine..."

Though Saint cannot see the expression on her face, he can imagine it--it’s just how well he’s come to know her, how well he had always been able to read her. He admires her honesty, but laments that not even _he_ could help her retain an optimistic view of their outcome. He chuckles; the sound echoing a little in the small space, “don’t you think that ought to be my line?” he asks, and he reaches out to his side, grasping blindly for the hand in her lap he just _knows_  is battle into a small fist. He finds it, uncurls the fingers and laces his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry that not even I can save us from this.” he sighs, “but, we just have to wait, don’t we?” he ensures his voice carries an airy tone through his uncertainty--hiding the truth of his concerns, of _his situation_. 

It won’t matter once her poison is at her skin again; she’ll free them--she’ll save him as she did in the past, and that’s all he matters, all he tries to tell himself _matters_. Unconsciously, his fingers grasp tighter to her hand. “For now, I think we should rest. We have no sense of time, but it would be worse not to conserve energy.” he notices her nod, “you may use my legs as a pillow, if you’d like.” he says softly, his free hand patting them to signal that he had extended them for her, and he feels her lay her head down. Many times on their journeys they had done this for one another, and so he knows by heart just what he’s looking at. 

Instinctively, his fingers come up to stroke the side of her face. “Good night, Cardia.” he whispers, and she returns the words to him sleepily--she must have been filled with a tense concern until now, because the instant lethargy is obvious. Once he is certain she is asleep, he stops gently caressing her face, and a hand clutches his chest gently. His head tilts back to rest against the rocks, and he takes the deepest breath he can in the limited space. His hand moves up to his throat; fingers tentatively holding it. It’s _dry_ , and he’s _certain_  his body is starting to devour him from the inside out. 

At first, he was certain the effect was the _hunger_  that had been steadily creeping over him--but though it’s been a slow realisation... that’s really _not all_. No, while he is most _definitely_  beginning to reach an almost unbearable level of starvation, there’s also a _burning_ in his chest. _A lack of oxygen_  he’d thought, being in such a small space. But the more his hunger rises; the more he begins to lack energy, the more he realises even the small cuts in his fingers take _longer_  and _longer_  to heal--the truth of the matter... it’s something he doesn’t want to admit is happening. 

Especially not to Cardia.

He takes another deep breath as though whatever cool air he can draw in will sooth the _fires_  inside of him. But it’s a lost cause, and he very much knows it. It’s sheer _will_  that keeps him moving when Cardia is awake, but at times like these everything he’s hiding becomes apparent. His body feels heavy, and his head light; it _aches_ , and it _hurts_ \--enough so that tears form in the corners of his eyes _when he lets them_. Not just physically, no, _emotionally_  he is also tormented. _Torn and suffering_  with his feelings because he knows--he _knows_ \--the woman he loves is on the verge of _killing him_. Without energy... he just can’t ward off the effect of the poison’s particles as they progressively get more concentrated each day they remain trapped here.

And yet, it’s not even a concern fro himself that worries him; it’s not death that frightens him, but instead the _knowing_  that Cardia will blame herself if he lets it take him. He remembers the story she told him; the feelings she had about it, the _reasons_  she felt so scared of finding out she might _really be_  a monster--that all those threats and horrible words thrown at her would be true. Perhaps it was then that he realised the _depth_  of his affections for her. Just how much it was that he loved her-- _understood her_ \--because without even being privy to the knowledge of it, _she’d understood him_ in the process. He wants to _cry_ , he can feel the tears on the threshold; but if he lets that happen, there’s no turning back.

He coughs involuntarily; quickly covering his mouth to stifle it and _stilling himself_  until he’s certain hasn’t awoken from the movement or the sound. Perhaps it’s already too late after all. If he could just hold out until her poison returns; then _at least_  he knows she’ll be safe, that she’ll escape, and maybe he’ll get one final glance at the sky they both adore. Another cough rises to his throat, but he suppresses it--the force of it scrapes his dry throat and he doesn’t want to _hurt_  any more than he already is. It’s strange; he’s been through so much, been _killed_  countless times by even Guinevere’s huge sword, but somehow this all strains him so much more. Because he doesn’t have the energy to recover so instantly? Because the process is slow? Because it’s also emotionally _taxing_? 

He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t need to know why; but he wishes he could just _see her face_  clearly. His eyes have been trained to complete darkness, but at best he can only make out _figures_ , not details. He should conserve his energy, he thinks, and yet he’s scared to close his eyes. Either way, he doubts he’ll be able to keep his worsening condition from her much longer. She’ll panic. She’ll worry. He just wants her to be happy. He has _so much_  to do, so much more he _wants_  to do with her. And he just... no, he doesn’t have the energy to keep his eyes open--or so he realises, as they begin to flutter. “I love you.” he finds himself saying, gripping to whatever he can to keep himself awake--resorting to even _focusing_  on the pain in his chest and stomach. He _fights it_ , for **all** he’s worth; but it amounts to nothing as he breathes a quiet apology, rests his hand gently atop Cardia’s head--

\--and falls to nothingness.


	22. Wedding Kiss

It doesn’t take a genius to notice Saint-Germain is incredibly happy; his smile is wider than usual, a grin in essence, and it doesn’t budge no matter what. It would be a lie, if he were to say he wasn’t nervous, but the joy outdoes it all. He knows he looks his best–he even had the classy gentleman thief assist him in getting ready. He hasn’t seen Cardia for an entire day, and he can’t wait to see the smile on her face again. It’s not often they spend more than a few hours away from each other’s presence, but there’s an exception this time–since it’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding after all. And, well, bad luck is something they could certainly use less of. 

Contrarily, their luck hasn’t been terrible; they have accomplished everything they could have ever wanted to, and more, even if there had been hard times and disappointments on the road. It was only after Saint had fulfilled his promise to her–to Lupin, to everyone, to himself–that he’d decided (though he had known all along) to make the promise to remain by her side forever. A promise that was vocally accompanied by a proposal; graceful, elegant and meaningful–the event had given him almost as much joy as he knows he shall feel in just a few minutes. 

He stands in anticipation, Lupin stood merely a few paces from him–who else could be his best man, really, after all this? Saint smiles towards him, and the gesture is returned with a grin; Saint brings a hand to his mouth to chuckle–he’s supposed to be waiting quietly, but even so he can’t help it. When he does fall silent again, the piano begins to play and the crowd fall silent. He fights the urge to look back, at least for a few moments, until she’s nearly close enough to join him anyway–he takes her hand almost instantly.

There’s a million things he wants to say, but he must save them for now–he smiles, and grips her hand tighter as they face forward. The ceremony is somewhat long, traditional, but not a soul interrupts throughout. Tears are undeniably shed by some (really, Saint had to worry for poor Leo’s heart at one point) but, as he finds himself on the verge of crying the majority of the time despite his smiling, he can’t really complain. Everything goes surprisingly smoothly; Saint had expected something to go wrong somewhere–just hilariously, of course, but apparently Impey hadn’t gone and done something weird for once. 

Saint grins at her; his face aches from the incessant smiling, and his hands are still trembling just a little from all the emotions he’s filled with, but even so he still reaches out to her veil with confidence so that he might lift it–and finally sees her face clearly. Her smile matches his own, and like himself there’s an unmistakable glossing of her eyes and it makes him chuckle as he peels the glove from one of his hands to place it upon the side of her face. His thumb brushes her cheek, and then he lets the hand slip further–into her hair and gently pulls her closer as he moves in. 

Their lips connect, and he can’t help himself; his other arm wraps itself around her waist, pulls her flush against him and he deepens the kiss–just a little bit, just for a moment. The cheers and whistles from those attending soon snap the Count back to reality and he eases away slowly; Cardia’s looking up at him with a flushed face, stunned for just a moment before she shows him that bright smile he loves. He’s so truly happy he doesn’t want this moment to end; he leans in to quickly kiss her forehead, and he has to wonder if there’ll ever be a moment in his life that will compare to this.

“I love you, Cardia.”


	23. Forehead Kisses

The hand that carefully caresses her cheek comes to a halt, his thumb moves in gentle strokes as he smiles warmly at her. A smile filled with as much warmth as the sun; a smile that hides the burning passion inside–one he simply must keep at bay, for now. He lays, with his arm propping up his head, and gazes at her sleeping face with more kindness than he can ever remember so genuinely sharing with somebody else. Cardia’s breathing is soft and even, and he really doesn’t want to disturb her, but as always he cannot leave her alone. In mere months, thanks to her, he’s _lived_  more than he has in the thousands of years he’s been alive. 

His hand shifts, fingers lace themselves carefully in her hair that falls around her face. He drags them through it, careful not to tangle them and pull harshly, and he’s caught up in fond memories. Sometimes she graciously allows him the opportunity to tie up her hair in differing styles–one of the many experiences he has after observing and _learning_  for so long; watching as humanity changes time and time again. It’s fascinating, but all of those experiences combined would never feel as fulfilling as the mortal life he leads now. Following a path of his own choosing, and truly risking his life should danger ever arise. 

It’s a thrilling experience, actually.

“Cardia…” he says her name softly, and her lips curl just ever so slightly, as though she can hear his words, even lost in the throes of slumber. It’s rare he drops the honorific from her name, unless he’s punctuating a point or speaking to her– _confessing to her_ –with the utmost sincerity, and he wants her to feel that, every time. Perhaps that is why her mouth curls into a pleasant smile–a natural reaction to her subconscious hearing the soft and gentle sincerity in his voice. Well, maybe he just _wants_  to believe that. Even if it’s merely caused by whatever pleasant dream she may be having, that too, is more than enough. If she’s happy, he has no reason not to be. Everything is for her happiness–her existence.

He chuckles quietly, and he leans forward to plant a quick kiss to her forehead as he pulls his hand away from her hair. The touch leaves his lips stinging as usual, but he’s gotten rather used to that feeling. It’s more like a tingle, and more than anything it’s an assurance–she’s here, he’s here, they’re both alive, and together. All facts he’d never dreamed would become a reality. Cardia isn’t particularly fond of moments when he harms himself to touch her; understandably not wanting to see him in any kind of pain, but compared to the past, this is nothing at all. Still, he’ll respect her wishes most of the time, but moments like this he allows himself to break the rules just a little bit–she’s not conscious to scold him or pout at him–because God knows he _needs to_  sometimes.

He shuffles closer, wraps an arm around her waist, and pulls her the rest of the way to him. Happiness. He’s always so happy that he could cry all over again. He is undeserving, but she means the world to him–she loves him, and he will return that love tenfold. He’ll make himself–redeem himself–into a man with every right to stand by her side and claim her as his own… Well, maybe he does that last part already, and he probably gets jealous more than he should when handsome men approach or compliment her but even so, there’s a distinguishable differences he places between self-importance and _her_  importance.

He smiles, holds her just that little bit tighter beneath the covers. 

“Thank you for staying with me, Cardia.”  



	24. Slow Dancing

His hand holds hers, raised, gentle and delicate--his other arm is weaved around her waist, his hand splayed on her lower back to keep her steady and firm against him. Countless times they have done this, the gentle piano music a backing that always eventually dies out, but their melody and dance continues until they tire. He taught her step by step, and now she moves with a practiced ease and elegance that mystifies him even to this day. Well, maybe that was just _her_  in general. He loves her dearly; she supports him more than any other, and he does all he can to repay that with his affection and _respect_ for her. He wonders, idly, just how many times they’ve danced to this gentle melody in the years that have gone by.

“Say, Cardia-san...” he pauses in his step, leaving her hanging in the balance with only his support to keep her from stumbling as he looks down at her. For a moment, or maybe many, there’s a distinct silence as he simply looks at her. His gaze is intense, _intent_ , as though he is trying to read a complicated book in a foreign language he has yet to master--he wants to know what Cardia thinks. What she wants to do. What her honest feelings are. But he finds himself somehow unable to ask. Because he is afraid that he may never be able to provide her with all she desires. At least, that’s what he thinks may be holding him back after all. The more time he spends at her side, the more happiness and joy they bring each other, the more afraid he is of losing it along with their hope.   


> “Saint...”  
> 

Her voice brings him out of his daze, and he closes his eyes for a moment as he conjures a smile and takes a step. “Ah, never mind, it was unimportant.” By now he knows she can tell the difference but old habits die hard, and from time to time he can’t quite bring himself to be honest. Her hand that clung to his shoulder shifts and he feels it wrap around his body, and the hand that was in his joins it--circling him in a warmth he _knows_  to be a comfort. She holds him without a word, and Saint feels guilty to have worried her at all. But then she hums; hums the gentle tune that has become something of _theirs_. He feels her weight push gently against him, like a small nudge, and his own arms wrap around her as he takes a step. The next step in the dance that’s always solely for the two of them. The next step of many they will need to continue forward. 

He smiles, and this time it’s genuine. No, his worries won’t vanish and neither will Cardia’s. But he’s already said, already _vowed_  that if following her--if _being with her_ \--leads to the end of the world, he’d take her hand and accompany her regardless. He’s happy with that, _happy_  with the woman who holds him tightly--with Cardia, who never ceases to amaze him, never fails to assure him of her love and joy--and he wonders how his demons can ever outweigh her presence at all. “Thank you, Cardia.” he whispers as she continue to hum softly. But he can tell she’s smiling anyway, held tight to him as they move step by step. “I’ll always... _always_ love you.” 


	25. Clothes

When he had told Cardia to find a change of clothes–once again they had been caught in a sudden downpour–he didn’t _quite_  expect to see this. Logically, it perhaps makes sense; or it’s better to say there _is_  a valid reason. They had packed lightly for this short trip, and a majority of their clothing had gotten soaked in the rain. Cardia’s seemed to take the worst hit, if her standing in front of him in her own trousers but _his_  shirt said anything of it. Cardia wasn’t the best educated on things like this–after all, it’s why he could tease her some time ago in his new kimono–so without reason he deems it highly unlikely she would simply wear his shirt by choice. That is, essentially, what he understands the situation to be as he returns to the hotel room.

“Cardia-san… That’s a little unfair.” He pouts a little as she looks at him curiously. He could offer an explanation, but embarrassing her in this state wouldn’t bode well–she’d likely insist on removing the shirt after all, and end up rather cold.

Instead he simply lets out a hefty sigh, shakes his head, issues or indecencies forgotten temporarily, and turns his pout to a smile. “So long as you are warm, it’s not a concern.” He doubts she would think to leave the room dressed that way in any case–she’s not a fool, and it’s apparent the shirt doesn’t fit her very well when made for his size. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to tear his own eyes away; perhaps the real danger lie in this room rather than outside of it–it’s a thought he entertains momentarily. Cardia nods; agrees that she is warm, wraps her arms around herself and states that it makes her comfortable for some reason. That perhaps it is because it’s Saint’s. Because it smells like him. And now all he wishes to do is _sit down_. Cardia is far to precious–too pure and innocent despite all she has been through–for him to handle at times. 

“I am glad you feel that way. But I am admittedly a little jealous. You have the real thing right here after all.”   



	26. "I want to hold you."

He glances up from his position, half humming half whining, “but there’s still so much…” he murmurs, planting a kiss to her toes, to the top of her foot, as he looks at her with slightly pouting, pleading eyes. “I haven’t found all the places yet.” His hands crawl their way up her legs, slipping just barely beneath fabric before her voice comes back again, accompanied by a delicate hand brushing through his bangs.

> “Saint…”

He pulls away, settles back onto his knees as he places his hands on the bed–either side of her seated body–and pulls himself up tall, leaning into her just enough that his face is mere centimeters from the horologium peering over the top of the summer nightdress. “It’s important.” He states, pouting more blatantly now. “You’re unfair, Cardia-san.” _But_  he has learned from his many mistakes, and listening to the wishes of Cardia gains him far more satisfaction–because _she_  gets to be happy. 

This is  _her_  life, and he is a component in it; someone who wants nothing more than to love her, and to be loved by her. 

So, he gets up slowly, leaning over her more and more, until she is forced to lean back to accommodate. Until she lays on her back, and her arms weave their way around his neck; fingers curling into the short white hair, a warm smile plastered on her face. The gratitude is written in her eyes, and reflected in Saint’s–because he is thankful in every moment, waking or sleeping, that Cardia is part of that normal happiness he wished for those thousands of years ago.

He brings up one of his hands, caresses her cheek with gentle fingertips and trails them over her lips–all these places he already knows are free of poison. He smiles, a pure and bright smile, chuckling as he presses his lips to hers; his hand instead reaches to pry one of her arms from him, so that he might slip his fingers between her bare, thin and delicate ones-- _and squeeze_. 

When he finally pulls away, he is breathless. But so is she. And though clothed, his body is pressed firmly down against hers. Again, he laughs gently--a chuckle that blows hot breath over skin and makes it tingle. “I” he kisses her jaw, “love you,” he kisses her ear, “ _Cardia_.” and the name is spoken lowly enough to make her shiver and hold him just that much tighter. He takes a deep breath and reluctantly pulls away, knowing he’ll get carried away. “Cardia-san.” he says sweetly, and her eyes flutter open to meet his gaze.

“ _May I continue_?”


	27. “You can’t save me from this.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> teeny tiny update because i love to die

“Let me–”

> “You can’t save me from this.”

Her words send a shock through him; stun him and still him, because he knows there’s a distinct truth to them. He is powerless to stop it. Helpless. _Useless_. “You… You don’t know that!” his hesitant and wavering voice speaks more volumes of his uncertainties than his words. He doesn’t want to give up, not after all this time, and yet… _And yet_ … His hand hovers in the space between them - a step further and he would reach her. 

He calms himself (to an extent), and forces a smile onto his face. Kind. Gentle. The smile she knows better than anything. And though it is merely masking his pain, it is still genuine. “Cardia-san…” he takes a step closer, and she fumbles backwards. He halts, and turns over the hand that was reaching for her, extending it. He wants her to take it, of her own accord. He wants her to trust him. Maybe he can’t do anything. Maybe he can’t stop anything. 

But, that doesn’t mean his feelings of remaining by her side must change. 

I love you.” He states with ease, “and perhaps it is cruel of me to say, but I cannot live without you. So, please, stay by my side.” Even the ground on which she stands dissolves - but Saint does not move. “I have always said, that you do not need to be afraid to touch me, Cardia.” The vibrancy of her hair gives her an ethereal glow, and he can think of her as nothing less than an angel. Even now, as the horologium completes itself - as the one thing that should not be created, comes into existence - he cannot see a monster in it.  


	28. Gale

It’s been some time since they returned; Cardia’s poison, as Fran had said, did indeed disappear by the time they had finished their travels. And Saint, of course, had kept a close eye ~~(and hands, and mouth)~~ on the progress the entire time. It had certainly been an embarrassing experience for Cardia the first few times, but as usual she grew accustomed to what Saint wanted, and it was never as though she didn’t like it. Saint would be able to tell immediately, after all. 

Since they came back, however, the pair have been busy - Saint wants to keep his promise to her, to have a wedding ceremony, and has been focused on the plans. Cardia, too, has also been giving her input. At the moment, he was simply reading a magazine - one that contained many ‘dreamy venues’ for weddings. Saint knew of places himself, with his age, but he wanted to enjoy even this menial task - it was new, and exciting. _And_ it was also something Cardia was experiencing for the first time. Both of them looking forward to something new, together.

Saint always looked after belongings, even if it was a magazine he could easily get multiple copies of, so he kept track of interesting places with little tabs of paper slipped between pages. Sometimes he would leave notes on them for when Cardia took a turn to look through, sometimes they would look through things together (especially when they had been looking at clothing) - but this time he was intent on seeing if he could pick out the places Cardia would like the most. He had been travelling with her for a long time now, he _should_  know these things.

It was almost like a little game of sorts, to himself.

Though Saint was no longer immortal, the honed senses of an assassin never dull - and he notices Cardia enter the room. From behind the pages of the magazine, eyes still quite focused on it, he asks if there’s a problem. While he wonders what the answer may be - and considers putting the magazine down to hear it when her footsteps move closer - what he doesn’t expect is for it to be snatched up out of his hands at a moment’s notice. 

She’s not so impolite as to toss it away, but with a determined look, she slides onto his lap before he can say anything. And _then_  places the magazine down on the sofa beside him. Her hands reach up to his face and her beryl eyes bore into his own before she kisses him. And his first conscious thought is how unfair it is. But, he will not fall behind either. Catching on immediately, he wraps his arms around her to pull her in closer. With her legs either side of his own, kneeling up, she’s just a bit taller. And, he notes, _relentless_  as she leans over him. 

When she pulls away, she is breathless - and he is much the same. 

“Hmm, that was nice.” he hums, and allows his hands to run up the sides of her body, to trace the length of her arms until they meet her hands at his face. He pries them away so that he might hold them and kiss her fingers, her hand - and then he places that hand on his shoulder, so that he can put at least one of his arms back around her. His other hand laces their fingers together, and he leans forward just enough that as she settles down he can bury his face in the crook of her neck, and he _breathes_. 

When he lifts his head, he’s peppering gentle kisses from her shoulder, up her neck. And he knows he’s won, when he feels her fingers’ grip tighten upon his shoulder. “Fufu...” he laughs softly, and his breath ghosts her skin. Her head tilts ever so slightly, but it’s all he needs to lick and suck upon a small expanse of skin in a spot that just _barely_  won’t be seen by their guests... should they have any, in the coming days. 


	29. Gale (Alternate)

He has only mild regrets, giving Cardia one of his favourite books to read. _Because_  he had said it was, she seemed to be reading with even more fervour and attention than usual. A few times he had offered her a snack, or some tea, and each time was met with a polite decline. He’s flattered, really, that she wants to use this as a means to find out more about the things he likes - but he can’t help but feel as though he’s _losing_  to the book. It’s one thing, he supposes, to be jealous of another person (there are plenty to stare at her beauty in broad daylight), but to feel it over a book makes him want to utterly chide himself. Instead, however, he sighs.

It’s not like the book can give her anything that he can’t. “Cardia-san.” he tries, once more, to gather her attention, as he stands off to the side with his own book in hand - not that he has been giving much notice to the words spread before him. There’s a pout - distinct, prominent - and if she’d looked, she’d be laughing. There’s really no hope for him, or the fact that he’s the most pitiful of men to even exist.

He closes his book with practiced silence, though, and sets it atop books lined upon the shelf. He will come back to it later, so there’s no need to file it away for now. But right in this moment it’s not the book that needs his attention. Actually, there’s little his attention is necessary for at all, however that won’t stop him from taking what _he_  needs. Even if it is petty, silly; driven by jealousy over something so meaningless. 

Pacing to the desk, he reaches across the snatch up the book from Cardia’s delicate fingers. The movement is swift, and he immediately places it (still open) on the desk. His hand rests atop the open page as he bends over - meeting Cardia’s complaint with a kiss meant to silence. Content that she won’t reach for the book, his hand leaves it in order to caress her face. His smile now that he has her focus is apparent, especially as he lowly hums and moves himself closer. 

It’s a good thing the chair at his desk is wide; but perhaps that’s because her womanly frame is so small, not that it says anything about her strength. If she truly wanted him gone, she had the ability to push him away. However she doesn’t. Her hands come up to frame his face all the same, and he takes the opportunity - the _invitation_  - to settle his knees either side of her legs. He won’t rest his weight on her, even if their sizes aren’t _that_  different, but it’s enough to know she can no longer escape. 

Hands work their way along her arms, until he can pry her hands from his face to hold them. Tightly, and between them. “Finally,” he mutters, this time his pout is a little more playful (but there’s no denying that it’s still real), “I want your attention.” Saint knows it’s selfish, just as much as it is petty and childish, but she accepted even the pitiful parts of him back then - so that means he’s allowed to be sometimes, right? 

Well, no matter; whether it’s permitted or not, he’s learned that being defiant can sometimes lead to the _better_ endings. 


	30. “No one will hurt you as long as I’m breathing.”

> “No one will hurt you as long as I’m breathing.”

The determination in Cardia’s eyes as she says what she does has Saint momentarily stumped. Her desire to protect him is no different from his desire to protect her - this he knows for certain. But, the _fire_  that comes with the way she phrases this just goes to show how much she cares. How much she’ll willing to sacrifice, if it means protecting him. For her to harm another, even if it is for his sake, is something he never expects her to do. Something he doesn’t _want_  her to do. She’s already burdened by the guilt of killing, even though it was accidental... To purposefully harm or kill another has an entirely different feeling. And it’s one Saint knows all too well.

But, he understands the sentiment, and that’s why he won’t fight it. Her desire to protect him - to chase after him to find him and help him - is a part of exactly what brought them this far. If she had simply let him go, if she hadn’t found him on London Bridge - would he really have stood a chance against Guinevere? Probably not. He was prepared to die, perhaps before he even had that chance to stand up and protect. Her love for him is strong, and far more than he deserves.

“I’m fairly certain that’s something I’m supposed to say to you.” he laughs softly, offering something of a smile. “But, Cardia-san...” he places a gloved hand gently to her cheek, strokes the skin recalling the warmth, and lets it trail to her chest atop her clothes - fingertips resting where the horologium lies beneath the layers. “I’ll protect your heart.” he states; knowing his words encompass many things, like protecting her feelings and her body, and that which makes her, _her_. “This heart that has enabled you to love me. This heart that keeps you alive... It’s the greatest treasure of my life. You, Cardia-san, are the most wonderful work of art.” 


	31. "You are my love."

Saint loosely has his arms wrapped around her body as they lay together on the couch. Her head rests on his chest as she lays there, and they’re both content in the silence. She’s able to hear and feel the steady beating of his heart, and that alone for her always seems like more than enough. And, _most of the time_ , the same could be said for him. Their peaceful moments are frequent, but never unwelcome. Just like their guests that stop by sometimes. In some ways, Saint thinks of the others like family. He would look after any one of them here all over again, if they needed it. His doors are always open, he tells them. 

Though, they do know to at least announce their presence when they arrive - Saint has Cardia to attend to in more ways than one, often enough. 

> “You are my love.” Cardia says softly, shifting her head slightly in order to look up at Saint, her chin resting on his chest.

He’s certain she does this on purpose. She’s gotten _too_  used to him. Even his unpredictability is becoming predictable to her. He was _just_  thinking about saying something to her, after all. Though he was still thinking about his choices - what he _wanted_  to say - since there are many things he could say to Cardia. Many things that he could say many, many, times and know it still wouldn’t be enough. Cardia is the last person in the world someone like him deserves, but damned be the world if it thinks he’s letting her go, ever. 

His smile is soft as he looks back at her, one hand from her back coming to brush her bangs from her eyes and stroke the side of her face, before it goes back to its rightful position. “And you are mine, Cardia-san.” he responds in kind, “my beautiful, kind, and strong, love. My precious, precious princess.” the smile on his face grows as he speaks, because Cardia is all of those things and even more. And the fact she is with him. The fact that she loves him. Still fills him with the same ecstatic joy as it did the first time their feelings were realised - when they grasped their fate together at Tower Bridge. 

No morning, to this day, has beaten that one in being so wonderful - but _those mornings_ , he thinks, when she rises tiredly in _his_  shirt, cut it pretty close. 


	32. "Your bedhead is really cute."

Saint’s made it as far as sitting himself up, still somewhat sleepy as he draws himself away from the throes of sleep. Frankly, no longer being immortal certainly changes things. It wasn’t as though sleep was _completely_  unnecessary back then, but a lack of it had never had a big impact on daily activities. Now, it seems, he really is _getting old_. Well, it’s only been a few years since then, and he’s quite accustomed to the differences - as well as the result of late nights. Unlike the refined manner in which he moves around during the days, he sits somewhat hunched, one hand rubbing at his eye while the other keeps the covers held close to his chest. It’s still winter after all, and though there’s no snowfall _yet_ , the temperature isn’t the most pleasant thing to experience first thing in the morning. 

He lets slip a sigh, yawns rather ungracefully, and does his best not to simply flop back down. Because five more minutes would undoubtedly turn to ten, or maybe twenty, and he doesn’t want to waste the day away like that now that he’s awake. Though the temptation when snoozing beside him is the girl he loves the most in this world makes it rather difficult to resist. That thought in mind of course, he turns his head to look at her. Apparently she _wasn’t_  snoozing, and her eyes meet his. She beams a smile at him - she _looks_  more well-rested than he feels. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed up that little bit longer to watch her after _that_. “Good morning, Cardia-san.” he offers in return, gentle smile of his own forming at the corners of his lips. However rather than say anything, she appears to stare at him for a long while, before she’s once again smiling peculiarly wide - he can see the _laugh_  in her eyes.

> “Your bed head is really cute.”

Saint _blinks_. It’s certainly not the first thing he expects to hear from her, nor was it what he expected would have her so visibly amused... and well, he didn’t expect amusement to relate to _cute_. He’ll take the compliment, though knowing full well what he looks like (as encounters with a mirror are unavoidable if he wants to _tame it_ ) in the morning he wonders if cute even really is applicable. “Is that so?” There’s a momentary purse of his lips; he uses a hand to straighten out the tangled and flyaway hair of his longer bangs, makes an _attempt_  to tame whatever’s become of the top and back of his head, certain that any input is better than the unkempt atrocity it usually ends up being. His focus returns to Cardia within moments. 

“But you know, I think _yours_  is actually rather cute.” Relenting, he lays back down - though onto his side this time, and propped up by his elbow as his head rests upon his hand instead of the pillows - and stares at Cardia with a meaningful smile. A tease, she’ll recognise it _and_  his words to be, and he reaches out to run his fingers gently through some of her long strands of hair. It neatens them to an extent, but it’s certainly going to need brushing. With his fingers nearing the tips of her hair, he stops moving them, holding the small gathering still, feeling the softness of it between his fingers and thumb. “No matter what you look like, you are always beautiful.” he smiles and leans forward just enough to meet his fingers holding her hair with his lips, and then lets go. 

He hums (though actually if one listened particularly closely, it might have sounded just a little more _pouty_ ), “so, do I get to receive a proper good morning today? I need revitalizing.”


	33. “I might have slept with your robe when you were gone.”

Since arriving home a few hours ago, Saint has spent his time with Cardia. At first they shared a discussion over tea, Saint talked about his short trip, and Cardia told him about what she had gotten up to in his absence. Saint doesn’t fear as much now, leaving Cardia to her own devices. Though he is still cautious of those who might approach her that aren’t _him_ , and have ulterior motive. Cardia is kind, but she is no longer the naive and easily mislead woman she previously was. Still, his faith and trust in her - and those that surround her closely - is enough to cast aside his worries. Fran and his clinic have an excellent standing in London, and many have seen both Saint (the noble aristocrat) and Cardia together - he expects most will have pieced enough together not to _bother_  her. But men, unfortunately, are men - it’s a fact that is the same for himself. 

Nevertheless, after talking the two had proceeded to the bedroom to read and relax more appropriately, and it was then - when Saint was looking for his gown, as nights are rather chilly this time of year - that Cardia spoke up.

> “I might have slept with your robe when you were gone.” 

“...Is that so?” he asks, though knows that _might_  is more likely a _did_. He places a hand upon Cardia’s cheek gently, and strokes the smooth skin beneath his thumb. “I’m sorry you were so lonely.” But, the same went for him. In fact, it took him a while to realize it was loneliness that was causing the heavy weight on his heart - it had been such a long time since a separation had caused it to take hold. It’s a suffocating feeling, in a way, and one not easily taken away or minimized. But he is glad she found something to help her, though it doesn’t make him feel any less bad about having to leave her for a time.

He may no longer be an Apostle, but it was a fact that those who surrounded him and took care of him were as much a part of his life now as they were before. They were significant people - it’s why they’d been given invitations to their wedding ceremony (some time ago now), and why he still retains contact with them. After all, even if he’s no longer on active duty, no longer immortal; he still has the knowledge only the oldest apostle would have. His insight can still be useful to Guinevere, or Hansel, and he doesn’t deny them council on matters - even if they’re no longer something he has any personal part in. 

Allowing her to finish preparing for bed, he lowers his hand from her face and notes the robe discarded in a place he had not left it, and smiles a little as he picks it up. Even now the faint scent of the bath salt she had chosen to use that day still lingered on his clothes - it must have been particularly recent, perhaps last night? He was almost a little envious of the _fabric_ , but that was a matter easily rectified anyhow. He puts the gown around his shoulders, though neglects to use the sleeves for now (he’d like to simply shrug it off before sleeping, without the hassle of having to shift and move and _rise_  just to take it off), and sits himself at the head of the bed with one of his books. 

“Cardia-san,” he pats the space next to him - the bed is large, and he knows Cardia will respectfully try to keep to her side without prompting. “Come here.” he doesn’t take his eyes off the book he’s flicked open to his most recent page, but he doesn’t expect he will be denied, all things considered. For a moment the flicker of the light from the lamp suddenly turned on interferes with his vision - but it is a sign that Cardia is closer to joining him. She, after all, doesn’t have the enhanced eyesight (brought about merely through experience) that he does to see within the dark. 

When he feels the mattress dip, he lifts an arm to invite Cardia closer into his side. Right now that’s where he wants her to be, whatever she may choose to do to pass the time. Granted what he doesn’t expect is for her to instead kneel there; taking his face into her hands, and kissing him with an unreserved fervor. It’s a passion he’s keen to reciprocate, of course. He can worry about the words on the page of his book later (if he remembers) he thinks, as he drops it to the floor beside the bed and encourages Cardia onto his lap. Though perhaps encouragement doesn’t quite do his actions justice, as his almost inhuman strength remains - he lifts her with ease, even at the slightly awkward angle, and forces her to straddle him instead. _Now_ he’s in the right position to really give back what he’s received, tenfold. 

 _And more_.


End file.
